MARY  HAST  INGS  BRADLEY 


fe 


"'You  must  let  me  keep  this,'  he  insisted." 

[PAGE  14.] 


The 
Splendid    Chance 


By  MARY  HASTINGS  BRADLEY 


AUTHOR   OF 

'The  Palace  of  Darkened  Windows" 


With    Frontispiece 
By  EDMUND  FREDERICK 


A.   L.    BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  Arrangements  with  D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY 


.  0?  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELF 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 

L.  S.  C. 


2125757 


THE 
SPLENDID  CHANCE 


BOOK    I 

CHAPTER    I 

SHE  knew,  as  he  very  high-handedly  carried  her 
away  from  the  others  who  had  come  to  the  steamer 
to  see  her  off,  that  it  was  going  to  be  a  wretched 
ten  minutes !  They  had  gone  over  that  ground  so  often 
of  late !  She  was  aware — to  her  unhappiness — of  every 
plea  that  he  could  make,  of  every  stubborn,  wounding 
word  that  she  must  give  in  reply.  It  did  no  good  to  talk 
about  it  any  more,  but  since  it  was  the  last  hour  before 
her  sailing  she  could  not  grudge  him  those  few  instants 
out  of  the  lifetime  that  she  was  so  persistently  with- 
holding. 

To  her  unhappiness  for  him  there  was  added  a  subtle 
sense  of  shame,  because  she  had  seen  this  coming  and 
had  been  irresolute,  uncertain,  so  genuinely  liking  him 
that  she  had  been  dreadfully  tempted.  .  .  . 

Even  now  it  was  hard  to  be  sure  that  she  would  never 
be  sorry  for  this.  There  were  so  many  ways  of  look- 
ing at  life! 

"I'll  wait,"  he  kept  telling  her  with  maddeningly 

1 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

dogged  insistence.  "You  don't  know  yourself,  yet. 
You're  crazy  now  over  this  painting  thing — but  what 
is  there  in  that  for  you?  You'll  find  out!  And  I'll 
wait " 

Across  the  gray-blue  of  her  eyes  there  scudded  a  lit- 
tle zigzag  of  panic  fear.  Across  the  young  eagerness 
of  her  face  there  darkened  a  shadow  of  age-old  hesita- 
tion. It  was  so  perilously  easy  to  have  him  wait — 
with  no  ostensible  responsibility  upon  her  part!  Sup- 
pose he  were  right?  Suppose  she  failed?  Suppose  she 
never  loved?  Suppose  she  never  met  anyone  else  so 
likable — so  distractingly  eligible?  Oh,  she  knew  what 
lunacy  her  refusal  of  him  would  be  thought !  And  she 
knew,  too,  for  all  her  youth  and  buoyancy,  that  the 
game  of  life  goes  often  hardest  with  the  most  scrupulous 
player.  From  the  deeps  a  hundred  whispers  of  caution 
rose,  a  prompting  echo  from  long  lines  of  sensible,  home- 
loving  women. 

Then  she  shook  her  head  at  him  angrily,  her  straight 
brows  knit.  "No !  Don't  wait,  Dick.  It's  useless." 

"But  you  like  me?" 

"Too  well.     That's  the  trouble.     I  can  almost  per- 
suade myself  that  such  liking  is  enough — but  it's  not. 
There's  more  I  ought  to  feel,  more  I  could  feel,  if— 
if " 

"If  you  met  the  right  one?" 

The  discord  in  his  voice  smote  her  quivering  senses 
hard.  She  was  a  girl  with  a  fatal  capacity  for  feeling 
others'  pain — sometimes  too  late ;  a  fatal  weakness  for 
giving  pleasure — sometimes  too  long.  Tears  leaped 
to  her  eyes. 

2 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"Oh,  Dick,  I  wish  I  could  give  you  what  you  want! 
I  wish  I  could !" 

Quickly  he  told  her,  "Your  liking  is  enough,  Kath- 
erine.  I  wouldn't  ask  for  more." 

She  knew  better.  There  was  an  irony  of  wisdom  in 
her  shadowy  smile.  It  was  not  enough,  she  told  him. 
Neither  for  him — nor  for  her.  She  was  so  brimming 
with  life,  so  conscious  of  vitality  that  would  be  waste 
with  him,  that  her  words  came  edged  with  unconscious 
revelation. 

"I  want  to  know  all  of  it — all  of  life  that  there  is  to 
feel.  There  must  be  something  more !  And  till  it  comes 
I  want  to  be  free,  free — free  for  my  work,  free  for  my 
own  life."  Already,  beneath  her  transient  distress,  her 
youth  had  taken  on  its  look  of  eagerness. 

He  said  bitterly,  "You'd  have  married  me  if  you 
hadn't  won  that  prize." 

They  were  stopping  at  the  rail,  on  the  upper  deck, 
hidden  by  one  of  the  lifeboats.  For  a  moment  more  his 
gaze,  belligerent  yet  entreating,  rested  on  her  flushed 
and  spirited  face  as  if  for  the  first  time  he  was  reading 
the  true  meaning  of  it  for  him,  then  his  eyes  turned 
away  from  her  in  a  blind  stare  across  the  harbor  teem- 
ing with  its  plying  craft.  The  March  wind,  vagrant  and 
capricious,  buffeted  his  set  young  face  where  desire  and 
stiffening  pride  struggled  behind  locked  lips.  He 
opened  them  on  a  painful  acknowledgment  of  defeat. 

"Well,  if  I  can't  make  you  love  me,  Katherine,  I 
can't,  that's  all." 

She  put  an  impulsive  hand  on  his  arm.  "And  some 
day  you'll  be  glad!  Some  day  when  you  meet  the  girl 

3 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

with  no  paint  stains  on  her  fingers  and  with  naturally 
curly  hair!  And  you'll  tell  her  that  she  is  the  only  one 
you  ever  loved  and  that  I  was  just  a  jolly  old  thing  you 
grew  up  with!" 

The  cheer  of  this  prophecy  fell  flat.  The  goaded 
young  man  grunted. 

"A  fat  lot  you  know  about  it !" 

Irrepressible  humor  bubbled  into  the  compassion  of 
the  girl's  eyes.  She  looked  at  his  averted  face  with  a 
half-rallying,  half-roguish  air  of  coaxing  him  to  see 
how  ill  tragedy  became  him.  He  was  a  stalwart  figure 
of  young  manhood,  not  tall,  but  very  strongly  built, 
with  an  impressive  air  of  discriminating  prosperity 
from  the  cut  of  his  spring  overcoat  to  the  glint  of  the 
black  opal  in  his  exclusive  scarf.  Achievement  had  cer- 
tainly been  in  his  forefathers.  His  own  face  had  been 
molded  in  lines  of  an  acquiescent  satisfaction  with 
which  the  present  denial  was  at  war. 

Hesitantly,  the  girl  reminded  him  of  the  time.  The 
others  were  waiting  to  see  her.  They  would  think  it 
strange.  .  .  .  He  turned  and  looked  at  her,  seeing 
a  vision  that  he  was  to  carry  as  a  memory  for  many  a 
day,  a  vision  of  a  girl,  gray-eyed,  fresh-cheeked,  with 
yellow  hair  blowing  in  the  wind. 

He  put  a  gripping  hand  upon  her  arm  and  drew  her 
further  back  in  the  shelter  of  the  lifeboat.  "It's  the 
last  time  we  may  ever  see  each  other  like  this,"  he  said 
huskily.  "You  say  it's  good-by — for  always.  Let  me 
kiss  you  good-by,  Katherine." 

In  touched  affection  the  girl  inclined  her  cheek,  cool 
and  rosy  with  the  wind. 

4 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

And  then,  whether  he  was  making  one  last  essay,  in- 
tending a  conquering  assault  upon  her  senses,  or  whether 
he  was  carried  away  by  impulse,  his  arms  closed  tightly 
round  her  and  his  lips  insistently  sought  hers.  A  pang 
went  through  her  of  confused  incredibility,  of  distaste, 
of  unhappiness  for  him.  .  .  .  And  as  she  pressed  him 
back  she  turned  her  flushing  face  away  and  encountered 
the  brightly  fascinated  gaze  of  a  young  man  just 
rounding  the  corner  of  their  shelter. 

She  had  a  sudden,  violent  impression  of  the  laughter 
in  that  young  man's  eyes.  There  was  wicked  mirth  in 
the  very  set  of  his  shoulders  as  he  swung  about  and 
beat  a  forced  retreat. 

It  was  humiliating !  The  shame  of  intimacy  intruded 
upon  is  never  with  the  intruder  but  with  the  unlucky 
intruded-upon  ones.  A  small  boy  beneath  the  balcony 
would  have  turned  Romeo  and  Juliet  to  derision.  A! 
hotter  color  stung  Katherine's  cheek  than  Dick  Con- 
rad's unwelcome  kiss  had  brought.  If  she  had  loved 
him — but  not  loving  him  her  concern  was  for  the  silly 
figure  that  she  was  cutting  in  the  unknown's  eyes.  Her 
anger  flared — not  against  poor  Dick  for  she  had  given 
her  cheek  at  least — but  against  this  intrusive  young 
stranger  who  came  popping  about  unlikely  corners  in 
such  unforeseen  fashion.  Had  he  no  one  to  whom  he 
should  be  saying  good-by?  Did  he  think  he  would 
find  his  friends  behind  lifeboats?  Or  perhaps — hate- 
ful thought! — he  was  not  there  just  to  say  good-by  to 
someone.  Perhaps  he  was  a  fellow-passenger! 

He  was  indeed.  He  leaned  near  her  at  the  rail  some 
little  time  later,  when  she  and  the  Whartons,  her  travel- 

5 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

ing  companions,  fluttered  their  farewells  at  the  figures 
upon  shore  that  grew  smaller  and  smaller  till  the  faces 
mingled  in  a  dwindling  blur.  She  had  a  swift  impres- 
sion of  the  young  man  as  very  tall  and  thin,  with  a  long 
ulster  and  a  cap  pulled  far  down  over  deep-set  eyes, 
and  then  she  saw  him  take  a  quick,  whimsical  look  at 
herself,  and  as  if  delicately  surmising  that  she  might  not 
care  for  the  proximity  of  one  who  had  surprised  the 
tender  intimacy  of  her  adieu  he  moved  considerately 
away.  He  seemed  to  be  alone.  .  .  . 

She  was  glad  when  that  young  man  moved  away. 
She  did  not  want  to  be  made  to  remember  those  last 
moments  with  Dick  Conrad — she  was  distressfully  eager 
to  be  free  of  Dick  Conrad  and  all  his  ways.  It  was 
dreadful  to  have  hurt  someone.  In  vain  for  her  sense  of 
character — older  than  her  experience — to  tell  her  that 
Dick  Conrad  was  hardly  the  soil  for  deep-rooted 
tragedy.  She  remembered  that  queer,  impotent  look  in 
his  eyes.  .  .  . 

Was  life  to  be  forever  like  that?  Could  one  never 
be  oneself,  free  to  grow  and  develop  as  one  wished,  with- 
out crushing  out  what  someone  else  was  wishing? 

She  wondered  if  she  would  be  sorry,  selfishly  sorry  for 
this,  in  the  years  to  come?  She  was  not  so  made  but 
that  the  thought  gave  her  a  qualm !  But  she  could  not 
help  her  decision ;  she  seemed  forever  secretly  different 
from  other  people,  set  on  some  quest  of  her  own.  .  .  . 

And  then  a  reanimating  gladness  was  lighted  like  a 
lamp  in  her — young  relief  that  this  worrying  thing  was 
over  and  done  with,  the  decision  made  and  the  future 
was  untrammeled  and  free.  To  her,  the  sailing  of  this 

6 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

ship  was  adventure.  It  was  adventure,  romance — the 
eternal  quest  of  youth.  It  was  the  first  step  to  the  un- 
known— the  land  of  promise.  Anything  and  everything 
might  happen.  The  stirring  of  far-away  things  was  in. 
the  air.  Hazard  was  invoked;  chance  tempted.  .  .  ., 
Her  pulses  quickened  with  the  quickening  stir  of  excite- 
ment, and  her  face,  young,  eager,  joyous,  had  the  touch- 
ingly  confident  look  of  one  who  listens  to  the  Winged 
Victories. 


CHAPTER    II 

BUT  it  was  not  so  easy  to  be  done  with  thoughts 
of  Dick  Conrad.     There  were  his  roses  on  the 
table  in  the  dining  salon.     There  was  his  fruit 
basket  in  the  stateroom.     There  was  his  steamer  letter. 
There  were  the  Wharton  sisters,  old  family  friends,  re- 
curring to  him  with  gentle  insistence.     Their  fancy  had 
been  captured  by  the  young  man's  hasty  trip  to  New 
York  to  see  her  off,  and  his  father's  position  shed  unde- 
niable glitter  upon  the  romance. 

In  their  separate  ways  both  sisters  made  manifest  to 
her  their  solicitude  lest  her  youthful  desire  for  a  career 
should  lead  her  to  abandon  the  sphere  of  truest  happi- 
ness. It  came  rather  touchingly  from  them,  Katherine 
thought.  Ellen  Wharton  was  one  whom  tragedy  had 
scarred.  On  the  eve  of  the  wedding  her  lover  had  been 
killed.  She  was  a  very  beautiful  woman,  with  a  clear- 
cut,  black  and  white  distinction,  but  she  had  never,  Kath- 
erine had  heard,  "looked"  at  another  man.  Her  statu- 
esque whiteness  gave  her  the  suggestion,  to  the  girl's 
fancy,  of  one  from  whom  her  heart's  blood  had  literally 
been  drained. 

Anne  Wharton,  the  younger,  was  not  so  distinctive 

8 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

nor  was  her  life  so  dignified  by  sorrow.  She  had  known 
neither  love  nor  loss.  She  was  one  of  those  charming 
women  that  the  world  wonders  to  find  unmarried — for- 
getting what  men  are  most  prone  to  marry.  Her  exclu- 
sions, her  fastidiousness,  the  shyness  behind  her  social 
poise,  and  her  fatal  facility  for  generalizing  a  situation 
— she  would  have  conventionalized  an  earthquake — had 
all  been  conspirators  against  her.  From  her,  even  more 
than  from  Miss  Ellen,  Katherine  thought,  it  was  elo- 
quent to  hear  the  gently  spoken  reminder  that,  after  all, 
it  was  in  her  home  that  a  woman  found  her  most  lasting 
happiness. 

"But  with  the  right  one,"  said  Katherine  defiantly. 

Anne  Wharton  hesitated.  "Yes-s,"  she  murmured 
into  the  depths  of  the  steamer  trunk  which  she  was  un- 
packing. Then  she  cast  a  faintly  quizzical  glance  upon 
the  gii'l.  Her  unspoken  thought  seemed  to  be  pointing 
out  that  it  was  a  trifle  absurd  for  Katherine — daughter 
of  a  none-too-affluent  professor — not  to  find  the  right 
one  in  Dick  Conrad.  "He  seems  to  care  so  genu- 
inely  " 

"I  know,"  said  the  girl  hastily.  "And  his  father's  in 
Steel.  And  if  I  don't  live  to  regret  him  I'll  regret  the 
Steel !"  And  to  Miss  Anne's  air  of  deprecation  of  that 
shameless  point  of  view  she  gave  a  droll  little  grin  that 
had  something  indescribably  boyish  and  gamin-like 
about  it. 

"Never  mind,  dear  Miss  Anne,  it's  the  way  I'm  made. 
I  expect  it's  the  painting,"  she  went  on  whimsically.  "It 
means  more  to  me  than  anything  else  in  the  world !" 

"Yes,  dear,  now — but  later?" 

9 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Always  the  cold  hand  of  caution,  the  pointing  finger 

of  feminine  foresight,  Katherine  thought   rebelliously. 

Suppose  life  was  a  chance?     It  was  a  splendid  chance! 

Better  never  to  have  lived  at  all  than  to  live 

coldly,  safely,  snugly,  like  herded  sheep!  .  .  . 

"Later?  Who  knows?  That's  the  charm  of  it.  And 
I  can't  believe  that  I  can  ever  be  anything  but  happy !" 
The  girl  stood  for  a  moment  with  bright  cheeks  and 
dreaming  eyes,  then  whirled  about  on  her  companion 
with  one  of  the  sudden  turns  that  revealed  her  swift, 
slim  grace.  "Don't  let  us  bother  over  things  in  here  any 
longer !  Come  out  on  deck  again.  The  sea  is  glorious. 
It's  just  as  I  knew  it  would  be!" 

Anne  Wharton  felt  a  throb  of  half-wistful,  half-pity- 
ing futility.  The  girl  was  so  very  young ! 

But  there  were  other  reminders  of  Dick  Conrad  not 
so  easily  diverted.  The  recollection  of  that  unfortunate 
farewell  was  flashed  at  Katherine  half  a  dozen  times  a 
day  from  the  eyes  of  the  young  man  who  had  surprised 
it. 

Not  that  this  young  man — the  second  day  out  placed 
him  as  an  Englishman,  a  Captain  Edgerton — was  so 
base  as  to  let  his  recollection  dance  openly  upon  the  sur- 
face, but  the  very  pointedness  of  the  repression,  the 
guarded  negation  of  all  laughter  when  his  gaze  encoun- 
tered hers,  was  evidence  enough.  She  knew  perfectly 
well  that  he  remembered,  that  he  was  smiling  at  her  in  his 
thoughts,  recalling  the  ardor  of  the  scene,  her  crimson 
face  .  .  . 

And  when  he  met  her  walking  the  deck  with  one  or 
the  other  of  the  young;  men  who  sat  at  her  table,  or  danc- 

10 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

ing  in  the  salon  or  chatting  at  late  supper,  she  knew 
from  the  ironic  flicker  of  the  Englishman's  glance  and 
the  twist  of  his  lips  that  he  was  saying  humorously, 
"Ah,  well,  you're  certainly  not  pining — whatever  you 
write  him!  You  are  a  cool  hand!" 

She  had  just  enough  conversation  with  this  Cap- 
tain Edgerton,  the  second  day  out,  to  know  how  he 
would  phrase  it.  He  had  been  talking  with  some  people 
in  a  group  of  which  Katherine  formed  a  part,  a  group 
that  had  gathered  at  the  rail  to  watch  the  black  fin  of 
a  following  shark.  When  the  group  thinned  the  Eng- 
lishman had  sauntered  over  to  where  Katherine  still 
stood,  and,  extending  his  field-glasses,  made  some  casual 
remarks.  His  bright  glance,  clear  and  a  little  cool,  had 
an  air  of  deliberately  not  remembering  that  he  had  seen 
her  before  under  any  circumstances  whatever. 

Katherine  had  replied  with  a  hauteur  which  had  be- 
come ludicrous  to  remember.  It  had  seemed  to  her — to 
whose  social  experience  "introductions"  were  the  breath 
of  life,  and  who  had  been  cautioned  by  an  anxious 
mother  concerning  shipboard  manners — it  had  seemed 
to  her  that  this  stranger  was  treating  her  with  casual 
freedom.  The  memories  that  he  evoked  of  Dick  Conrad 
constrained  her.  She  was  absurdly  anxious  to  make  an 
impression  of  dignity. 

He  had  not  waited  for  the  impression  to  expand. 
After  a  pair  of  monosyllables  from  her  he  had  sauntered 
away,  and  thereafter,  to  her  later  chagrin,  be  it  admit- 
ted, he  had  made  no  effort  to  develop  the  unpromising 
acquaintance,  contenting  himself  with  an  occasional  bow 
when  unavoidable,  and  that  carefully  guarded  glance 
2  11 


which  bespoke  his  mirthful  recollection  of  something 
droll  to  guard. 

Increasingly  Katherine  had  felt  an  utterly  needless 
desire  to  put  herself  right  in  his  eyes,  to  prove  to  him 
that  she  was  not  a  young  person  of  eternal  stiffness  and 
to  paint  out  the  memory  of  the  sentimental  creature  he 
must  be  seeing  in  her.  But  one  cannot  walk  up  to  an 
all-but-total  stranger  and  say,  "Let  me  tell  you,  I  am 
not  engaged  to  that  young  man  !  You  beheld  no  Romeo- 
and-Juliet  parting,  but  an  act  of  charity,  abused.  Now, 
for  goodness*  sake,  don't  let  me  catch  you  twinkling  at 
me  any  more !" 

Yet  aside  from  this  faintly  ruffling  resentment  of  the 
Englishman's  memories,  the  days  were  all  gladness  to 
her.  They  slipped  past  far  too  rapidly,  like  bright 
beads  raining  from  a  string.  They  were  unforgettable 
days  of  wide  seas  and  skies,  days  of  spring  sunshine  and 
March  winds,  of  keen,  salt  freshness,  of  tumultuous 
cloud  and  scudding  shadows.  All  that  loved  beauty  in 
her  responded  to  the  beauty  about  her.  It  seemed 
enough,  then,  just  to  be  young  and  alive,  with  a  heart 
for  loveliness  and  laughter.  Why  could  not  life  be  like 
this  always,  bright  and  free  and  plastic,  deeply  con- 
scious of  its  inexhaustible  vitality? 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  had  rained  at  noon  but  later  the  sun  came  out, 
fugitive,  faint-hearted,  at  first,  then  suddenly  con- 
fident and  conquering.  The  sea  that  had  been 
foam-flecked  and  fretful  became  all  bloom  and  glitter. 
The  clouds  looked  luminous  and  joyful,  sailing  very  high 
on  their  mysterious  ways. 

The  exhilaration  of  the  day  was  dancing  in  Kather- 
ine's  blood.  A  smile  of  prankish  daring  edged  her  lips. 
Very  stealthily  she  tore  out  a  page  of  her  sketchbook, 
hidden  within  a  larger  book  as  she  sat,  rug-wrapped,  in 
the  chair  next  Miss  Anne's.  Very  stealthily  she  opened 
the  fingers  that  lifted  the  loose  sheet  just  as  a  tall  figure, 
hands  deep  in  the  ulster  pockets,  peaked  cap  low  over 
the  eyes,  came  tramping  by  on  the  tenth  or  twentieth 
oblivious  round. 

The  wind  seized  on  the  paper,  fluttered  it  conspicu- 
ously, and  obligingly  flung  it  across  the  path  of  that 
tall,  oncoming  figure.  And  then,  like  all  meddlesome  as- 
sistants, it  overdid  matters.  With  an  unnecessary  puff 
it  sent  the  paper  twirling  over  the  rail. 

But  the  tall  young  man's  hands  came  out  of  those 
deep  pockets  with  amazing  quickness.  He  made  a  swift 

IS 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

dash  to  the  rail  and  reached  high  for  that  fluttering 
paper.  In  triumph  his  fingers  closed  on  it. 

Katherine  sat  up  very  straight  in  her  chair,  her  eyes 
alight  with  mischief. 

The  young  man  turned  to  restore  his  capture  and  as 
he  did  so  very  naturally  his  fingers  busied  themselves  ab- 
sently smoothing  out  the  creases  he  had  inflicted,  and 
very  naturally  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  damage  that  his 
grip  had  wrought.  And  then  he  became  aware  of  bold, 
black  pencil  strokes,  of  a  long-legged,  hurrying  figure 
in  a  monumental  ulster  overhung  with  a  bulldog  pipe, 
an  aquiline  nose,  and  a  peaked  cap.  The  thing  was  capi- 
tally done.  The  young  Englishman  began  to  laugh, 
and  a  warm  color,  like  a  girl's,  rose  in  his  very  clear- 
skinned  face. 

"I  say — you  must  let  me  look  at  this,"  he  declared  to 
Katherine. 

"It's  too  late — isn't  it? — to  say  no,"  she  gave  back, 
in  a  soft  note  of  laughter. 

"You  are  clever — that  is,  if  you  are  the  artist?"  he 
thought  to  question,  and  at  her  admissive  nod,  "Then 
you  must  let  me  keep  this,"  he  insisted,  still  smiling  boy- 
ishly down  at  the  crumpled  sketch. 

In  the  next  chair  Miss  Anne  bestirred  her- 
self. 

"Why,  Katherine,  what  is  it?"  And  as  the  English- 
man held  up  his  trophy  the  lady's  face  was  touched  with 
her  sympathetic  sense  of  what  poor  Katherine  must  be 
feeling  at  this  incident.  "Ah,  you  mustn't  mind  that 
pencil  of  hers,  Captain  Edgerton !"  she  said  pacifically. 
"She  caricatures  us  all  wickedly — but  she  isn't  always 

14 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

so  terribly  found  out !"  And  Katherine  had  the  grace  to 
blush. 

"But  this  is  very  jolly,"  the  Captain  maintained. 
"It's  clever,  you  know."  He  looked  at  Katherine  as 
though  she  might  need  reassurance  upon  that 
point. 

"At  least  you  recognize  it,"  she  returned  gaily. 
"That  is  more  than  some  portrait  painters  can  claim, 
isn't  it?" 

"Recognize  it?  Rather!  .  .  .  Do  sign  it  for  me. 
I'd  like  to  keep  it,  please." 

Obligingly  she  printed  a  neat  "Katherine  King"  in  a 
corner  of  the  sketch,  and  then,  after  a  little  three- 
cornered  chat,  when  Miss  Anne  began  to  find  it  too  cold 
for  comfort  in  her  rug  and  decided  to  go  within,  Cap- 
tain Edgerton  turned  to  the  girl  with  a  boyish  air  of 
yielding  to  impulse. 

"Won't  you  take  a  turn  with  me,  Miss  King?  It's 
not  cold  when  you're  stirring." 

She  felt  a  little  shy  when  she  started  off  beside  him. 
And  the  eternal  reminder  of  Dick  Conrad  was  at  hand 
to  embarrass  her.  Very  quickly  she  began  to  talk. 

"I  should  think  more  people  would  be  out  on  deck. 
It's  such  a  wonderful  afternoon." 

"But  there's  auction,"  he  reminded  her  humorously, 
his  hands  deep  in  his  ulster  pockets  again,  his  head  bent 
before  the  wind  that  assailed  them  as  they  rounded  the 
bow.  "You  forget  that  auction  doesn't  attend  to 
changes  in  the  weather." 

"You  don't  play?" 

"Not  on  shipboard.  ...  If  one  confesses  to  it 

15 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

once,  one  is  lost.  There  is  always  a  fourth  to  be  found 
for  some  dull  table." 

Katherine  laughed.  "You  are  far-sighted!  I  rather 
wish  I  had  been." 

"I've  observed  you  being  occasionally  victimized." 

"But  not  often.  And  I  should  be  adamant  to  any  ap- 
peal on  such  a  day !" 

"Ah,  it's  your  first  trip,  isn't  it?"  He  looked  round 
at  her  with  a  friendly  smile. 

She  nodded.  "It  is.  But  I  think  I  shall  feel  the  same 
on  my  tenth.  .  .  .  You've  crossed  often?" 

"Not  the  Atlantic.  This  is  only  the  second  trip  on 
that." 

"Your  first  trip  then  to  America,"  she  said.  "Were 
you  there  long?" 

"A  week." 

"A  week!"  She  laughed.  "What  was  the  matter? 
Didn't  you  like  us?" 

"Immensely,"  he  assured  her.  "But  I  didn't  want 
to  forfeit  my  leave.  I  was  just  over  for  my  chum's 
wedding." 

"To  an  American?" 

"Yes,  a  New  York  girl.  He  met  her  last  winter,  on 
the  Mediterranean.  One  of  those  shipboard  affairs." 

"Oh!"  said  Katherine  a  little  blankly.  He  spoke  as 
if  "shipboard  affairs"  were  negligible  and  fantastic 
trifles  barbed  by  chance  and  propinquity.  She  thought, 
a  bit  resentfully,  that  he  was  young  for  such  a  tone. 

"But  what  did  you  see  of  America  in  a  week?"  she 
questioned.  "Were  you  in  New  York?" 

"Only  overnight — coming  and  going.  The  girl's  peo- 

16 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

pie  had  a  place  up  the  Hudson — a  very  jolly  place. 
There  were  hills  that  looked  splendid.  I  wish  I'd  had 
more  of  a  chance  at  them." 

"You  should  have  stayed.  And  then  you  laugh  at 
us  for  'doing'  Europe  in  so  little  time." 

"Ah,  but  I  don't  claim  to  have  'done'  America,  you 
know!"  He  looked  down  on  her  smilingly.  "I  sup- 
pose you  are  going  to  see  all  the  sights?  Castles,  cap- 
itals, cathedrals?" 

"I'm  going  to  Paris — to  study." 

"To  study— what?" 

"Painting,"  she  said  a  little  self-consciously — her 
aim  was  so  great  and  she  always  felt  somehow  so 
femininely  inadequate  to  it  in  people's  eyes. 

"Painting!  .  .  .  Ah,  the  sketchbook  explained! 
You're  the  real  thing,  then,"  he  said  lightly,  but  there 
was  frank  astonishment  in  his  eyes.  She  looked  ab- 
surdly young  in  the  straight,  loose  coat  she  wore.  Her 
cheeks  were  poppy  pink  in  the  salt  wind ;  her  eyes  were 
shining  with  their  innocent  air  of  happiness.  Below 
her  traveling  cap  a  wave  of  honey-colored  hair  was  visi- 
ble. ...  It  seemed  to  the  young  man  that  the  study 
of  painting  was  a  totally  inadequate  occupation  for 
such  a  feminine  young  person. 

It  seemed  to  the  girl  that  he  was  feeling  that  she 
was  a  totally  inadequate-looking  person  for  the  study 
of  painting,  and  her  answer  was  a  meek  murmur.  "I 
do  hope  I  am." 

"But  that's  a  large  order,"  he  said,  quite  seriously. 
"That  is,  if  you're  really  going  in  for  it." 

"I  am.  I  mean  to  find  out  if  it's  actually  in  me — or 

17 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

just  a  flash  in  the  pan.  You've  no  idea  how  furiously  I 
shall  work !  And  I've  a  year  to  do  it  in." 

"A  year!"  A  sudden  flicker  of  mischief  twinkled  in 
his  eyes.  He  gave  her  a  droll,  boyish  look. 

"I  say,  that's  a  long  time  for  him,  isn't  it?" 

"For ?" 

No  use  to  evade  the  audacity  of  those  eyes!  "We 
can't  pretend,  can  we,"  their  teasing  look  seemed  to  be 
saying,  "that  I  didn't  see  you — and  that  you  didn't  see 
that  I  saw ?" 

She  said  lightly,  trying  for  coolness,  "That's  a  very 
wrong  assumption  of  yours." 

"Oh,  come  now,  Miss  King,  don't  be  a  humbug! 
Don't  tell  me  that  it  was  your  brother !" 

She  laughed  at  that,  her  cheeks  flushing  in  the  quick- 
ness of  her  young  blood,  her  eyes  for  just  one  instant 
meeting  the  chaffing  boyishness  of  his.  "No  brother,  but 
— I  was  only  being  a  sister  to  him." 

"Ah,  now — now ?" 

"It  was  good-by — to  what  never  was,"  she  heard 
herself  most  strangely  insisting. 

The  astonishing  young  Captain  replaced  his  incredul- 
ity with  large  surprise.  "Letting  the  chap  down — 
what?  Not  taking  him  on?  Is  that  the  way,"  he  in- 
quired with  an  air  of  solicitude,  "that  you  usually — er — 
let  them  down?  Because  if  it  is " 

She  refused  to  meet  his  merriment. 

"I  say,  there's  three  more  days  before  we  land.  If  I 
could  work  up  a  little  sympathy  for  myself " 

"You're  too  absurd!"  Her  laughter  bubbled.  Her 
eyes  were  full  of  sudden  lights.  The  audacity  of  hers 

18 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

danced  in  tune  in  his.  Poor  Dick  Conrad's  passionate 
farewell  was  serving  in  unremembered  irony  to  bridge 
these  two  to  sudden  intimacy. 

"You're  not  a  bit  what  I  expected,"  she  ran  on  mer- 
rily. "I  thought  Englishmen  were  more — polite — and 
not  at  all  humorous." 

"Ha,  the  funny  paper  chap !  Lord  Dundreary  who 
daren't  go  to  the  music  halls  Saturday  night  for  fear 
he'll  laugh  in  church  on  Sunday!  .  .  .  But  you  don't 
mean  that  I'm  the  first  Englishman  you  ever  met?" 

He  revealed,  in  all  unconsciousness,  his  sense  of  the 
immense  lack  of  such  an  existence. 

Her  smile  was  teasing.     "The  first  ordinary  one." 

"I   like  that!    As   if   I   weren't   a   most   extraordi- 


nary  • 

"But  the  others  were  lions — writing  lions  and  paint- 
ing lions,  caged  and  exhibited  at  receptions.  And  they 
were — solemn." 

"I  should  hope  so !  Fancy  being  exhibited  at  a  pink 
tea !"  The  young  Captain  grimaced.  "And  I  suppose 
you  made  heartless  fun  of  their  captivity?" 

"No,  I  usually  poked  cakes  and  ices  at  them  through 
the  bars  of  the  cage.  You  see  father  is  a  professor  in 
a  small  college  and  so  the  social  duties  fall  heavily  upon 
all  the  family." 

"I  begin  to  grieve  that  I  am  not  a  lion.  Then  I 
might  have  been  handed  on  to  your  college  and  you 
would  have  exhibited  me  and  fed  me  ices.  And  done  my 
portrait — a  very  respectful  portrait !"  the  young  man 
emphasized,  and  again  their  eyes  met  and  their  youth 

19 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

laughed   in   that   sudden,   light-hearted   sense    of   inti- 
macy. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  smoke?"  he  inquired,  and  at  her 
quick,  "Not  a  bit,"  he  stopped  to  fill  and  light  his  pipe 
in  the  shelter  of  a  companionway.  It  took  several  min- 
utes for  the  wind  was  high,  but  the  young  man  was  not 
impatient.  He  had  an  air  of  attending  thoroughly  to 
whatever  might  be  the  business  of  the  moment,  and  Kath- 
erine,  taking  fresh  note  of  his  lean,  clear-cut  face  and 
tall,  rather  spare  figure,  found  herself  intensely  liking 
his  look  of  high-bred  race  and  nervous  energy.  He  had 
laughing  eyes  and  a  fighting  chin.  The  eyes  were 
brightly  blue,  deep-set  under  arched  brows ;  the  nose 
was  purely  aquiline ;  the  chin  would  have  been  too  domi- 
nant but  for  the  boyish  sweetness  of  his  mouth  when  he 
smiled.  .  .  .  And  he  smiled  when  he  looked  up  from 
his  pipe  and  surprised  the  serious  fixity  of  her  gray 
eyes  on  him. 

Without  speaking  they  turned  away  from  the  com- 
panionway and  fell  into  step  together,  then  paused  in- 
voluntarily at  the  stern  of  the  boat  to  look  down  into 
the  churning  froth  of  waters  and  out  across  the  blue  and 
gold  sparkle  of  the  waves.  It  seemed  to  Katherine  that 
there  had  never  been  so  gay  a  day.  She  felt  a  sense  of 
holiday  in  her  heart,  a  feeling  of  gladness  and  content, 
that  yet  held  its  undercurrents  of  vague  agitation. 

Captain  Edgerton  broke  the  lengthening  silence.  His 
tone  was  quite  serious  now ;  so  were  the  blue  eyes  that 
were  looking  steadily  down  at  her. 

"Tell  me  about  the  painting,  please,"  he  asked.  "I 
am  interested." 

20 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

The  last  crimson  glow  of  the  sunset  which  had  blazed 
like  a  burning  Rome  had  faded  from  the  west  and  only 
light  strands  of  purest,  palest  colors  were  fluttering 
there  like  far  banners  on  some  height  when  Katherine, 
wind-blown  and  breathless,  came  flying  into  the  state- 
room to  dress  for  dinner. 

She  found  Miss  Ellen,  freshly  gowned,  sitting  on  the 
couch,  a  spread  towel  on  her  silken  knees,  doing  a  few 
last  things  to  her  polished  nails,  while  Miss  Anne  was 
hooking  in  place  the  girdle  of  her  sedate  dinner  dress. 

"I  am  late — we  didn't  realize — "  she  murmured, 
hastily  flinging  off  her  coat  and  hat,  and  attacking 
blouse  buttons  with  cold  and  rather  fumbly  fingers. 

"Who  is  'we'  ?"  inquired  Miss  Ellen,  and  at  the  girl's, 
"Oh — Captain  Edgerton  and  I,"  Miss  Anne  looked  up 
quickly. 

"Not  all  this  time  with  Captain  Edgerton?"  she  ex- 
claimed, and  then,  curbing  a  natural  astonishment  to  a 
milder  pace,  "Why,  what  did  you  two  find  to  talk  about 
so  long?" 

"Oh — everything."  The  girl's  eyes  had  little  danc- 
ing points  of  light  in  them,  belying  her  vagueness. 
"Paris — London — Oxford — the  barracks — painting," 
she  recited.  The  mirror  gave  her  a  sudden  shock.  "So 
I  look  like  that?"  she  exclaimed  tragically.  "All  red — 
and  blowsy." 

"How  did  you  think  you  looked  in  this  wind?"  mur- 
mured Miss  Anne. 

"I  was  feeling  beautiful,"  said  Katherine  whimsically, 
lowering  the  wash-stand.  "His  name  is  Jeffrey  St. 
Preux  Edgerton,"  she  informed  them,  while  busily  wash- 

21 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

ing.  "His  grandmother  was  French.  Her  husband  was 
an  ambassador.  And  all  his  other  grandfathers  were 
soldiers.  His  father  was  killed  in  the  Boer  War,  and 
his  mother  lives  in  the  country  at  Edgerton  Hall. 
Doesn't  that  sound  English — and  romantic?  There  are 
just  the  two  sons — the  Captain  and  a  little  brother  now 
at  Eton.  He's  going  to  the  navy  when  he's  big  enough, 
he  says,  but  the  Captain  wants  him  in  the  army." 

"What  an  autobiographical  young  man,"  was  Miss 
Ellen's  comment. 

Katherine  stared  above  the  folds  of  her  active  towel. 
"Oh,  no,"  she  smiled  back.  "He  didn't  recite  it  like 
that.  It  just  came  out — when  we  were  talking.  You 
see  I'd  been  telling  him  about  my  home,  and  my  brothers, 
and — and  painting — and  so  it  all  came  out." 

"You  must  have  missed  your  tea,"  said  Miss  Anne 
after  a  moment,  during  which  Katherine  attacked  her 
flying  hair  with  a  vigorous  brush.  "I  went  on  deck  to 
look  for  you  but  I  didn't  see  you  and  I  thought  you 
were  inside  somewhere  writing  letters." 

"We  must  have  been  on  the  upper  deck,  then,"  Kath- 
erine reflected.  She  wavered,  her  hands  full  of  her  light, 
shining  hair,  between  a  part  and  a  low  knot  or  a  pompa- 
dour and  a  high  one,  deciding  hastily  in  favor  of  the 
pompadour.  "But  we  didn't  miss  our  tea.  Captain 
Edgerton  went  down  and  brought  some,  and  we  had 
it  up  there  in  the  sunshine.  Weren't  the  ginger  cookies 
good  to-day,  though?" 

No  one  made  any  answer  to  that,  and  she  completed 
her  hairdressing  in  absorbed  silence,  then  drew  out  the 
steamer  trunk  and  began  diving  into  it  for  a  dress  which 

22 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

she  had  not  yet  worn.  Behind  her  back  the  sisters'  eyes 
met. 

"He's  a  very  attractive  young  man,  that  Captain 
Edgerton,"  said  Miss  Ellen  evenly,  after  an  instant. 
"He  comes  from  a  very  fine  old  family,  I  believe — some 
of  the  passengers  were  telling  me  about  him  only  this 
morning.  It  is  very  interesting  to  meet  a  young  man 
like  that,  so  typical  of  a  class  foreign  to  us,  full  of 
caste  prejudices,  of  course,  and  immense  exclusions,  but 
all  the  more  interesting,  on  that  account,  to  such  casual 
acquaintances  as  we  travelers  are." 

Not  a  word  of  this  did  Katherine  comprehend.  Her 
silence  was  not  preoccupation  with  this  "No  Trespass- 
ing" sign  which  Miss  Ellen's  caution  was  so  swiftly 
hanging  out  for  her  impulsive  youth.  She  was  wonder- 
ing, sitting  back  on  her  heels  before  the  open  trunk, 
whether,  after  all,  the  corn  color  would  not  look  a 
teenty  bit  too  sudden  .  .  . 

And  that  night,  meeting  Captain  Edgerton's  eyes 
after  dinner,  she  was  not  in  the  least  reminded  of  Dick 
Conrad. 


CHAPTER    IV 

SHE  was  not  an  early  riser  but  the  next  morning 
she   suddenly    found   herself  intensely   awake   in 
her  upper  berth,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  circle  of 
blue,  bright  sky  the  port-hole  framed.     And  presently 
the  call  of  it  became  imperative,  so  that  she  slipped 
softly  down  and  dressed  in  stealthy  haste.     But  the 
terrible  intimacy  of  the   stateroom  defied   precaution, 
and  the  two  sleepers  roused  to  a  sense  of  something 
extraordinary  going  on  that  the  bald  simplicity  of  her 
explanation  did  not  allay. 

When  the  girl  had  gone,  whisking  lightly  out  the 
stateroom  with  an  air  of  elate  escape,  the  sisters  stared 
solemnly  at  one  another  from  lower  berth  to  couch. 

"Do  you  think — ?"  said  Miss  Ellen. 

Remembering  the  yesterday  afternoon,  remembering 
the  corn-colored  dinner  dress,  remembering  the  chat 
over  the  coffee  in  the  salon  and  the  later  walk  on  deck, 
they  appeared  amply  justified  in  thinking.  And  when, 
a  long  hour  and  a  half  later,  Kathcrine  entered  the 
salon  for  breakfast  with  the  young  Englishman  in  her 
wake,  there  was  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  disingenuous 
collusion.  But  there  the  good  ladies  were  wrong. 

24 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

For  Katherine  had  not  the  least  reason  to  expect  that 
Jeffrey  Edgerton  would  be  striding  briskly  along  the 
sunshiny  deck  that  morning.  She  had  no  notion  at  all 
of  his  inveterately  early  habits.  Simply  the  day  was 
calling  to  her  and  something  in  her  was  answering. 
She  strolled  about,  her  hands  boyishly  deep  in  her 
pockets,  her  uncovered  hair  blowing  back  from  her  face, 
offering  a  spectacle  of  delightful  girlhood  to  the  few 
spectators  yet  abroad — mainly  engaged  in  swabbing  the 
decks  she  so  lightly  trod  and  rubbing  endlessly  the  shin- 
ing brasses. 

When  a  tall  and  curiously  familiar  figure  came  quickly 
around  the  bow  toward  her,  her  heart  gave  a  queer 
little  jump  and  then  went  on  a  little  faster  than  ordi- 
nary. She  was  conscious  of  no  surprise  but  of  a  fresh- 
ened sense  of  pleasure,  only  a  little  troubled  and  shy 
for  fear  he  should  think  she  had  been  expecting  him. 
But  his  own  gladness  in  the  encounter  was  too  frank 
and  simple  for  such  undercurrents. 

Together  they  elected  to  make  their  way  out  to  the 
bow,  forbidden  to  cabin  passengers  in  general,  and  there 
huddling  down  against  the  coils  of  rope,  the  ship  at 
their  backs,  the  sea  in  their  faces,  with  white  foam  fly- 
ing past,  they  knew  that  wonderful  sensation  of  joyous, 
lonely  flight  across  the  waters  that  no  safe  deck  can 
give.  They  could  feel  themselves  out  before  the  mast 
of  some  flying  galleon,  plunging  across  an  uncharted 
sea.  .  .  . 

And  to  her,  after  that,  those  shipboard  hours  which 
had  seemed  so  amply  sufficing  in  their  changing  loveli- 
ness, became  nothing  but  the  background  for  the  sud- 

25 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

den  play  of  this  young  attraction.  She  did  not  in  the 
least  reason  about  it,  she  did  not  plan  nor  hesitate. 
She  gave  herself,  as  simply  as  a  child,  to  the  pleasure 
of  being  with  him,  of  having  him  in  their  group,  of 
seeing  him  near  them,  knowing  that  he  wanted  to  be 
with  her.  It  was  very  stirring,  very  exciting,  and  left 
her  sometimes  a  little  breathless  with  a  curiously  hur- 
rying heart. 

To  the  one  remonstrance  which  Miss  Ellen  thought 
it  worth  while  quietly  to  give  she  had  replied,  her  gray 
eyes  childlike,  her  lips  candidly  smiling,  "But  Miss 
Ellen,  dear,  I  like  Captain  Edgerton,"  and  appeared 
to  think  that  settled  it. 

So  might  Dido  have  declared  that  she  liked  ^Eneas 
upon  that  warrior's  arrival,  and  Helen  may  undoubtedly 
have  remarked  to  Menelaus  in  outward  simplicity  that 
she  liked  Paris!  Miss  Ellen's  dry  "Evidently,"  was 
significant  of  hidden  depths. 

But  there  were  no  conscious  reserves  behind  Kath- 
erine's  simplicity.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had 
been  overtaken  by  a  feeling  which  stirred  her  into  a 
self  she  did  not  know,  and  beyond  whose  daily  revela- 
tions she  did  not  attempt  to  analyze.  Perhaps  it  was 
all  part  of  the  spring  wonder  of  the  trip.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
it  was  just  a  mood  of  spring,  sparkling,  evanescent. 
.  .  .  Perhaps — like  the  spring — it  was  a  beautiful  be- 
ginning. 

But  from  that  veil  her  fancy  drew  back  shyly,  even 
with  sharp  distaste.  The  present  was  enough.  Real 
work  was  waiting  in  Paris. 

26 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

There  were  three  days  of  it,  three  days  of  flashing, 
quicksilver  hours,  and  then  through  fog-drenched  air, 
heavy  and  blankly  veiling  as  gauze  curtains,  Katherine 
saw  the  shores  of  France  take  on  a  nearer  and  surer 
outline.  She  saw  the  city  of  Boulogne  looming  shadowy 
ahead,  with  its  roofs  and  chimneys  gaining  in  individual 
distinctness  against  the  dun  sky,  and  before  it  in  the 
vague  harbor  waters  separate  ships  detached  themselves 
with  detail  of  spars  and  sail  and  misty  cordage.  Soon 
she  saw  the  little  fleet  of  fishing-vessels  stranded  by  low 
tide  upon  the  shores,  and  the  puffing  tender  making 
ready  to  come  out. 

Her  first  view  of  France — and  there  was  no  uplift, 
nor  stirring  rush  of  expectation  as  she  stared  at  the 
country  her  heart  had  so  long  strained  to  reach!  Her 
mood  was  as  flat  and  uninspired  as  the  view.  What  was 
to  be  for  her  there  was  hidden  behind  that  wan  curtain 
and  she  was  conscious  now  only  of  indefinable  heaviness 
that  was  not  far  from  depression. 

It  was  absurd,  but — perhaps  one  always  felt  so  at 
the  journey's  end. 

They  would  land  now  in  an  hour.  Jeffrey  Edgerton 
was  to  go  on  with  the  boat  to  Southampton. 

All  day  the  rain  shut  them  in  to  publicity.  The  sa- 
lons seemed  crowded ;  the  lower  decks,  canvas-curtained 
for  protection,  held  an  incessant  throng.  Everywhere 
the  acquaintances  to  whom  she  had  been  so  pleasant 
had  surrounded  her;  everywhere  addresses  and  friendly 
wishes  and  farewells  were  thrust  upon  her.  Everywhere 
but  from  Jeffrey  Edgerton.  Not  a  parting  word  had 
lie  said.  Only  his  eyes,  extraordinarily  serious,  had  fol- 

3  27  4 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

lowed  her  in  an  oddly  puzzled  way,  as  if  he,  too,  were 
wondering.  .  .  . 

And  now  that  the  rain  had  stopped  and  let  them 
come  to  the  upper  deck  alone  they  were  standing  at 
the  rail,  still  wet  with  drops  which  the  heavy  air  refused 
to  take  back,  standing  in  utter  silence,  staring  solemnly 
at  the  slowly  nearing  land.  And  suddenly  it  came  over 
her  as  an  instance  of  the  ironic  coincidence,  the  start- 
ling unexpectedness  of  life,  that  here  where  she  had 
begun  the  trip  with  a  farewell  to  one  young  man  she 
was  ending  it  with  a  farewell  to  another — and  one  who 
four  days  before  had  been  an  utter  stranger.  .  .  .  But 
what  a  difference  in  her  mood.  .  .  .  And  she  thought 
of  that  final  parting  with  Dick  Conrad,  that  utter  put- 
ting behind  her  of  the  temptation  to  dally,  to  be  safe, 
to  invest  the  future,  with  a  sense  of  almost  frightened 
thanksgiving.  Suppose,  now,  that  she  were  fettered 
by  some  obligation !  Suppose  these  last  few  days  had 
never  been ! 

Captain  Edgerton  had  drawn  a  square  of  folded  pa- 
per from  his  pocket.  With  a  solemnity  that  gave  him 
an  endearing  likeness  to  a  small  boy  resolutely  ignoring 
his  self-consciousness  at  what  he  felt  was  a  momentous 
thing,  he  told  her  that  it  was  his  address  and  asked 
for  her  own. 

Hers,  she  said,  was  the  American  Express  Company. 
They  were  not  sure  yet  at  what  hotel  they  would  stop. 

"But  later,  when  you  leave  the  Whartons  and  take 
your  studio,  you'll  send  me  that  address  ?" 

"Why,  yes,  if  you  wish." 

"I  do  wish — very  much.'*  He  gazed  down  at  her  a 
28 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

little  wistfully  and  worriedly.  "I  don't  like  to  think  of 
you  alone  in  Paris,"  he  brought  out  surprisingly. 
"Alone  in  a  studio — -with  no  one  to  look  after  you.  It's 
— absurd." 

"But  why?"  A  very  feminine  smile  quivered  about 
her  lips.  "There  are  hundreds  of  American  girls  do- 
ing that  very  thing." 

"But  they're  not  you"  Remorselessly  his  tone  dis- 
posed of  these  unknown  hundreds,  lumping  them  in  a 
safe  and  untroubling  aggregation.  He  continued  to 
stare  anxiously  down  at  her  through  the  soft  dusk. 
"Suppose  you  were  ill?" 

In  sheer  light-heartedness  she  felt  a  sudden  inclina- 
tion to  laugh.  Her  depression,  her  dullness,  had  van- 
ished magically  like  mist  before  some  sudden  warmth. 

"But  I  shan't  be !  I  never  am !  And  anyway  there 
are  certain  to  be  people  in  Paris  that  I  know — at  the 
studios  or  at  the  hotels.  Be  sure,"  she  declared,  "that 
I  went  over  that  with  mother!" 

Still  his  earnest  look  dwelt  on  her  and  she  felt  that 
there  was  something  more  that  he  intended  saying,  some- 
thing he  did  not  quite  know  how  to  say.  She  found 
herself  waiting  for  it  with  a  queer  expectation  and  half 
dread. 

And  then  he  asked  if  he  might  come  and  see  her. 

The  secret  tension  was  lightened.  She  felt  a  sense 
of  relief  and  gladness.  "Why,  yes,  of  course — if  you're 
in  Paris." 

"But  that's  just  it.  I  shan't  be  in  Paris — not  as  a. 
casual  thing,  you  know."  He  spoke  half  humorously,, 
but  with  an  implication  of  frank  avowal.  "I  want  most 

29 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

awfully  to  see  you  again.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  my 
not  doing  so.  ...  I  can't  get  away  till  my  leave  in 
August  and  that's  too  far  away — except  for  a  possible 
week-end  or  two.  .  .  .  And  if  I  come  for  a  week-end  I 
want  to  know  if  you  will  really  let  me  see  you — give 
me  all  the  time  you  can,  you  know?" 

With  an  ungloved  finger  she  drew  a  long  line  through 
the  drops  on  the  rail.  "What  a  forehanded  person !"  she 
murmured — possibly  to  the  rail  for  she  did  not  look 
up.  "Does  he  leave  nothing  to  chance?" 

"He's  going  to  leave  a  good  deal  to  it!"  the  young 
man  laughed.  "But  he  wants  to  know  if  you  would  be 
glad  to  see  him  again?" 

Carefully  she  demolished  five  bright  drops.  "It  would 
be  sad,"  she  confided  then,  "to  express  my  anticipatory 
delight — and  have  you  forget  to  come.  Paris  is  some 
way  from  London — and  our  friendship  is  but  four  days' 
old." 

"But  I've  seen  more  of  you  in  these  four  days  than; 
ever  I  have  of  any — almost  any  other  girl  I  ever  knew," 
he  answered  quickly,  and  Katherine's  mind  dwelt  with 
useless  curiosity  upon  that  "almost." 

"Don't  you  believe,"  he  earnestly  demanded,  "that  in 
four  days  I  can  come  to  feel  that  I  really  know; 
you " 

"Oh,  yes  indeed,"  she  assured  him.  "I've  been  un- 
usually lovely  these  four  days — it  would  be  a  stout 
heart  that  could  resist  me!  But  I  wonder  if  I  could 
liave  stood  the  test  of  five?" 

He  chuckled  and  then  returned  with  humorous  vio- 
lence, "How  I  hate  myself  for  that  time  I  lost  at  the  be- 

30 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

ginning !  I've  court-martialed  myself  for  gross  in- 
competence and  neglect  of  opportunity.  I 
wanted  to  know  you  all  the  time.  But,  you  see,  I 
thought " 

She  knew  quite  well  what  he  had  thought!  Here, 
upon  this  very  deck,  with  wicked  laughter  in  his  eyes, 
he  had  surprised  her  in  Dick  Conrad's  arms  !  The  dark- 
ness hid  her  heightening  color. 

Not  wholly  naively,  "But  did  that  matter?"  she  mur- 
mured, her  finger  again  intent  upon  its  traceries. 
"Couldn't  you  be  friends  with  me  even  if  you  did 
think " 

"Humbug!"  said  Captain  Edgerton  rudely.  "Now 
if  you  had  seen  me  kissing  some  delightful  girl  good- 
by " 

A  distant  shock  went  through  her.  That  "almost" 
recurred  startlingly,  and  she  began  to  wonder,  rapidly 
and  helplessly,  about  the  delightful  girls  in  his  unknown 
life.  And  there  must  have  been  bridesmaids,  yards  of 
visiony  bridesmaids  at  the  Hudson  estate  wedding.  .  .  . 
A  small  scare  began  to  spread  like  a  chilly  cloud  upon 
her  spirit. 

"Did  you?"  she  murmured  pensively. 

"Humbug  again,"  said  the  Captain.  "You  know  I 
wouldn't  be  here  if  I  had." 

"There  is  nothing,"  she  delicately  pointed  out,  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  tilting  in  a  shadowy  smile,  "so 
fatally  compromising  about  being  here !" 

It  struck  her  that  there  was  a  peculiar,  almost  an 
ominous  quality  in  that  silence.  Glancing  hastily  up 
over  her  shoulder  she  found  the  young  man  looking 
down.  He  had  not  stirred  but  through  the  dusk  his  eyes 

SI 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

met   hers   with  a   little   flash   of   dancing   lights.  .  .  . 

In  the  pause  a  distinct,  tingling,  electrical  disturb- 
ance made  itself  felt. 

"Not  yet — but  if  you  continue  to  look  like  that!"  He 
laughed,  but  his  voice  had  a  sudden  treacherous  drop 
in  it.  Then  very  quickly  he  reverted  to  the  serious. 
Night  was  closing  in  upon  them  and  last  minutes  were 
pressing  hard. 

"You  haven't  answered  me  yet,"  he  said.  "Tell  me 
truly — will  you  really  be  glad  to  see  me  in  Paris?  Do 
you  vrant  me  to  come?" 

It  was  youth,  with  the  insistent  honesty  of  its  desires. 
It  was  life,  on  the  eternal  quest.  Do  you  want  me?  Do 
I  want  you? 

She  looked  away  from  him  across  the  darkening  har- 
bor, her  eyes  seeking  dim  distances.  .  .  .  Strange, 
that  on  this  very  boat,  in  the  act  of  what  she  had 
thought  an  escape  from  the  perplexing  tangle  of  cross 
purposes  she  had  plunged  even  deeper  than  ever  into 
fresh  stirrings  and  uncertainties.  She  was  accustomed 
to  beginnings — all  her  youth,  as  yet,  was  but  tentative 
and  promise  and  undertaking, — but  the  suddenness  of 
this  beginning,  its  utter  disconnection  with  the  rest  of 
her  life,  gave  it  a  sensation  of  almost  ephemeral  un- 
reality. 

She  was  silent  so  long,  her  eyes  remote,  that  it 
seemed  to  him  that  his  answer  had  been  given,  and  he 
straightened  under  it  in  compliance  with  a  nature  which 
met  rebuff  bravely. 

"Of  course,  if  you  would  rather  I  didn't  come,"  he 
said  quietly,  "if  there  is  someone  else  so  much  a  better 

friend  than  I  can  ever  be " 

32 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"Oh,  no!  There  isn't!"  The  words  came  springing 
without  her  volition.  She  turned  to  him,  her  face  lifted, 
her  gray  eyes  luminous  under  the  shadowing  lashes. 

"I'd  like  you  to  come,"  she  uttered  with  a  frankness 
that  was  a  little  breathless  in  its  belated  haste.  "Only — 
only  I  was  just  wondering,  Captain  Edgerton,  if  you 
were  real!  You've  been  so  sudden — you  may  be  just  a 
• — a  mirage." 

He  laughed  happily,  in  the  relief  of  her  words.  "A 
jolly  substantial  one,"  he  declared.  "But  I  know  what 
you  mean.  I  feel,"  he  avowed,  "a  little  bit  that  way 
about  you.  .  .  .  Four  days  ago  there  was  a  distant 
young  lady  with  yellow  hair  .  .  .  talking  with  the  other 
chaps.  And  now  there's  you.  And  everything's  quite 
different.  Isn't  it?" 

Her  eyes  acknowledged  it,  half  laughing,  half  shy. 

"And  I'll  come  as  soon  as  I  can  pull  it  off,"  he  went 
on.  "It  may  be  a  bit  hard  to  get  away  for  a  time — but 
it  will  come  right,  you'll  see.  We'll  manage  it  some- 
how." 

It  was  the  most  unconscious  thing  in  the  world — that 
plural.  It  came  slipping  out  of  his  exhilaration,  his 
young  faith  in  her  sincerity.  ...  It  sent  a  sudden, 
sweet,  stinging  confusion  through  her,  a  glad,  disturb- 
ing warmth. 

And  as  they  stood  there,  one  lingering  moment  more, 
the  damp  salt  air  in  their  faces,  the  low  clouds  overhead, 
she  realized,  with  a  queer  little  flutter  of  her  adventur- 
ous heart,  that  a  scrap  of  paper,  tossed  lightly  across 
the  path  of  chance,  may  lead  to  solemn  consequences. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  LITTLE  after  noon  the  doors  of  the  Academic 
Moderne  closed  behind  her  and  she  came  out  into 
the   sunshine   of  the  Rue   de   Notre   Dame  des 
Champs.     It  was  April,  sweet,  warm  and  bright,  with 
not  a  cloud  from  the  morning's  rain  to  dim  the  blueness 
of  the  sky.     The  tender  breath  of  spring  came  stealing 
to  her  in  the  fragrance  of  violets  from  a  curb  vender's 
cart,  and  she  stopped  impulsively  for  a  damp  cluster  of 
the  purple  flowers. 

"Always  the  flowers,"  jeered  Olga  Goulebeff  beside 
her.  She  was  a  short,  plump  girl,  orphan  daughter  of 
a  Russian  father  and  a  French  mother,  whose  easel  was 
next  to  Katherine  King's  in  the  morning  classes.  She 
had  merry  eyes,  an  impudent  nose,  a  small,  droll  mouth 
and  black,  curly  hair  that  grew  low  over  her  forehead 
and  ears.  At  first  glance  she  seemed  a  pleasant,  rather 
childlike  creature;  it  was  not  till  you  looked  close  that 
you  glimpsed  something  fixed,  secretive,  inscrutable 
about  these  small  features. 

Katherine  smiled  vaguely  in  response.  Her  eyes  were 
absently  following  the  purple  and  gold  masses  of  the 
flower  cart  as  it  bumped  its  way  through  the  crowded 

34 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

street ;  in  her  ears  Olga's  voice  and  the  competitive  cries 
of  the  venders  were  caught  up  and  blent  in  the  chimes 
that  near  them  rang  the  quarter  hour.  She  loved  all 
the  tones  in  that  unquiet  voice  of  Paris,  all  the  colors  in 
the  bright  and  shifting  spectacle.  Everywhere  she  saw 
pictures.  .  .  . 

Following  a  little  group  of  students  the  two  girls 
turned  into  a  small  restaurant  farther  down  the  street 
and  took  their  places  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  red-clothed 
tables.  Already  the  scene  had  grown  familiar  to 
Katherine  and  she  nodded  to  acquaintances  here  and 
there  at  the  tables.  There  were  a  few  girls  and  more 
older  women  present,  but  the  majority  were  men> 
earnest-faced,  bearded  students,  at  present  intent  on  the 
business  of  consuming  an  excellent  luncheon  for  an  in- 
significant price.  Most  of  them  were  untidy  in  their 
clothes,  many  of  them  were  shabby,  in  a  picturesque, 
comfortable  way,  but  the  velveteen  coat  and  the  flamboy- 
ant tie  and  hair  of  the  artist  tradition  of  the  quarter 
were  nowhere  represented  except  by  two  old  derelicts  of 
painters  sipping  their  vin  ordinaire. 

At  her  own  table  a  stream  of  rapid  nonsense  and 
parody  was  coming  from  a  young  man  at  the  opposite 
end,  Etienne  de  Trezac.  De  Trezac  was  the  spoiled 
darling  of  the  Academic.  The  students  acclaimed  him  a 
genius.  Guerin,  the  master,  believed  ardently  in  his 
power,  and  thundered,  "Dilettante,"  bitterly  at  his  in- 
dolence. "Mediocrity  is  always  industrious,"  the  young 
man  would  retort,  with  his  mocking  smile. 

Between  him  and  the  other  young  Frenchmen  at  the 
school,  good,  earnest,  provincial  young  fellows  for  the 

35 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

most  part,  there  lay  a  subtle  difference  invoked  by  every 
aspect  of  De  Trezac's  finished  young  person  and  grace 
of  manner.  He  was  not,  like  these  others,  bending  his 
neck  to  the  eternal  yoke  of  Art;  he  was  but  lending 
some  years  of  his  youth  until  certain  expectations  of 
inheritance  drew  him  back  into  that  Faubourg  where 
the  obligations  of  Family  reigned  supreme.  He  was 
not  rich;  the  small  allowance  on  which  he  subsisted  in 
alternate  recklessness  and  saving  care  was  an  unwilling 
one  from  a  family  which  felt  that  to  produce  instead  of 
to  patronize  art  was  unworthy  of  the  blood. 

The  impressionability  of  Katherine's  youth  had  found 
romantic  glamour  in  this  story  which  De  Trezac's 
charm  enhanced.  She  was  trying  now  to  follow  his 
rapid  flow  of  French  with  its  baffling  elisions  and  its 
studio  slang,  but  she  gave  it  up  and  turned  to  Olga  in 
rueful  admiration. 

"If  I  could  only  understand  half  that  you  do!" 

Olga  shrugged.  "But  why  should  I  not?  My  mother 
was  French.  It  is  as  native  to  me  as  Russian." 

"Yes,  but  the  English  as  well — and  the  German. 
And  I  heard  you  getting  on  famously  with  that  Italian, 
the  other  afternoon." 

"Our  gift  for  languages  is  a  national  necessity.  No 
one  can  speak  our  own  tongue  and  since  we  are  a 
people  who  must  talk  we  must  learn  the  tongues  of 
others,"  the  girl  laughed,  finishing  the  last  vegetable  in 
the  soup.  "Woof — I  was  famished.  That  woman  this 
morning — did  you  ever  see  such  a  pose?  I  worked  like 
ten  demons  and  then  there  was  nothing  right." 

"Are  you  going  back  this  afternoon?" 

36 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"I  don't  know.  No."  She  drew  a  long  breath  of 
Katherine's  violets,  her  little  nose  wrinkling  in  luxurious 
delight.  "It  is  too  warm.  It  is  enervating.  I  should 
like  to  go  to  the  country,  I  think.  And  you?  You 
work,  I  suppose?" 

Katherine  shook  her  head.  "No,  I've  some  friends 
coming  in  to  say  good-by." 

"And  the  croquis?" 

"I  shan't  get  back  for  that,  either." 

Olga  glanced  down  the  table,  caught  Etienne  de  Tre- 
zac's  eye  an  instant,  hesitated,  then  turned  to  Katherine 
with  an  air  of  spontaneous  inspiration. 

"But  later?  Shall  we  dine  together?  Let  us  go  to 
the  Lilas  and  look  on.  All  the  quarter  will  take  the  air 
to-night." 

"I'd  love  to,"  Katherine  easily  agreed.  She  found 
Olga  a  bright  and  amusing  companion  whose  three 
years  at  the  art  schools  had  given  a  patter  of  informa- 
tion and  gossip  to  her  tongue's  end. 

She  went  on  with  her  lunch  and  did  not  see  the  little 
Russian's  steady  nod  to  Etienne,  nor  his  quiet  signal  of 
intelligence.  If  she  had  noticed  she  would  have  thought 
it  all  a  drolly  foreign  precaution  for  an  apparently 
casual  meeting.  To  her  American  mind  such  subtleties 
were  absurd  between  frank  and  friendly  companions  in 
art. 

Leaving  Olga  at  the  restaurant  she  started  for  the 
studio  which  had  become  home  to  her  now,  passing  down 
the  Rue  de  Varin  for  that  detour  through  the  Luxem- 
bourg Gardens  which  was  a  constant  joy  to  her  beauty- 
loving  spirit.  Here  April  was  at  her  fairest  and  sweet- 

S7 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

est ;  the  trees  and  shrubs  were  in  delicate  leaf ;  the  grass 
held  that  first  tender  green  of  spring ;  the  borders  shone 
with  golden-hearted  daffodils.  From  the  green  shrub- 
beries white  statues  gleamed  and  in  the  sunshine  the 
drops  of  the  fountain  sparkled  in  rainbow  hues. 

Everywhere  against  the  bloom  and  color  of  the  park 
were  bonnes  and  babies  and  a  troop  of  little  children ; 
huge,  bright  hoops  went  flying  down  the  paths  with 
active  little  bare  legs  racing  after;  balloons  were  bob- 
bing and  floating  at  mimic  heights  like  a  sudden  high 
growth  of  giant  flowers  and  here  and  there  delicious 
little  girls  in  miniature  skirts  and  droll  little  boys  in 
very  tight  and  short  trousers  above  their  thin  legs  were 
tossing  balls  or  playing  at  diabolo. 

The  girl's  lips  curved  in  unconscious  smiles  at  the 
youngsters,  and  she  shared  her  violets  with  one  toddler 
that  swayed  perilously  about  her  skirts,  then,  remember- 
ing the  flying  minutes,  she  hurried  on  out  of  the  park 
and  through  the  crooked  streets  to  that  gray-stoned  old 
corner  where  she  lived. 

She  entered  a  worn  doorway  over  which  a  battered 
coat  of  arms  still  bore  its  lilies,  passed  the  door  of  the 
corner  studio  which  was  beneath  her  own  and  turned  to 
the  stairs.  On  the  lowest  step  she  found  a  small  child 
sitting,  who  shrank  patiently  into  the  corner  to  let  her 
pass.  A  round  shade  hat  and  a  mop  of  untidy  black 
curls  half  hid  the  little  face,  but  from  the  shadows  a 
pair  of  big,  black  eyes  met  Katherine's  interrogative 
smile  without  a  flicker  of  answering  brightness. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  anyone?"  said  Katherine  in 
French,  for  Madame  Bonnet,  the  concierge,  was  not  at 

38 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

present  in  her  cage,  and  the  mite  looked  forlorn  there 
on  her  shadowy  step. 

The  child  continued  to  stare  darkly  at  Katherine  be- 
fore replying.  "I  am  waiting  for  someone,"  she  an- 
swered briefly  in  French,  with  a  small  air  of  dignified- 
reserve. 

"Oh!  I  see,"  Katherine  murmured,  and  being  taken 
by  those  solemn  eyes  she  lingered,  extending  another 
cluster  of  violets  from  that  depleted  bunch.  "But  it  is 
too  fine  a  day  to  be  waiting,  isn't  it?  You  ought  to  be 
out  picking  these." 

Rather  slowly  the  little  thing's  fingers  closed  about 
the  flowers.  "I  thank  you,"  she  said  primly,  accepting 
the  necessity  for  so  doing,  apparently,  as  part  of  her 
lot. 

A  stolidly  reserved  mite,  Katherine  reflected  humor- 
ously, abandoning  her  attempts  at  friendliness  and 
starting  on,  when  a  sudden  joyous  shout  made  her  look 
back.  "Robert!"  cried  the  little  girl  with  a  vigorous 
American  sounding  of  the  "t,"  and  running  from  her 
lower  step  she  cast  herself  jubilantly  upon  a  young  man 
just  entering  the  door. 

Katherine  stared  involuntarily;  the  young  man,  a 
stalwart,  black-browed  fellow,  was  just  fitting  his  key 
into  the  door  of  the  first-floor  studio.  Katherine  re- 
membered that  black-browed  young  man.  She  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  him  once  or  twice  in  passing  in  or 
out;  she  had  heard  that  he  was  Robert  MacNare,  a 
sculptor,  an  "arrived"  sculptor,  as  Madame  Bonnet  had 
stated  succinctly,  but  the  impression  which  pervaded  all 
others  came  from  the  day  of  her  arrival,  when,  trailing 

39 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

up  the  stairs  in  the  wake  of  Madame  Bonnet's  creaking 
stoutness,  she  had  been  startled  by  a  stocky,  blue- 
bloused  figure  darting  out  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs 
and  shaking  an  admonitory  fist  after  madame. 

"Pas  de  chanteuses !"  he  had  barked  ferociously,  add- 
ing, "No  singers,  mind!"  in  unmistakable  American  for 
Katherine's  benefit,  and  madame  had  turned  smilingly 
and  waved  a  pacific  reassurance,  "Oh,  la,  la,  jamais,  au 
grand  jamais!  Pas  de  chanteuses,  monsieur,  pas  de 
chanteuses !" 

The  memory  of  that  moment  made  Kathcrine's  lips 
twitch  in  irrepressible  humor,  and  finding  herself  thus 
caught  in  staring  back  and  smiling  she  spoke  out 
frankly  to  the  young  man  whose  neighbor  she  was.  "I 
have  been  trying  to  make  friends  with  the  little  girl — 
but  she  was  rather  shy  of  me." 

The  young  man  gave  her  a  just  perceptible  glance 
and  turned  the  key  in  his  door.  "She  has  the  bad  taste 
to  be  unsocial,  mademoiselle,"  he  rejoined  curtly,  step- 
ping briskly  into  his  studio,  the  mite  of  a  child  at  his 
side. 

His  manner  more  than  implied  that  he  also  was 
speaking  for  himself. 

Katherine  found  herself  alone — and  very  warm- 
cheeked.  "Surly!"  she  thought  furiously,  and  then, 
"Why  did  I  stop  and  speak  to  him  anyway?  It  was  a 
silly  thing  to  do !  But  he  might  have  been  human.  .  .  . 
I  suppose  that  little  thing  is  his  sister.  She's  American, 
then,  for  all  her  French  air.  ...  I  wonder  if  she  lives 
there  with  him?" 

Continuing  to  wonder  at  the  relation  between  the  odd 
40 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

pair  she  reached  her  own  studio,  directly  above  that  of 
the  black-browed  young  man,  and  her  vexation  went 
streaming  from  her  at  the  sunny  pleasantness  of  the 
room. 

It  was  a  bright  airy  place,  with  windows  to  the  west 
and  north,  and  it  offered  the  instant  impression  of  hav- 
ing been  taken  by  storm  after  years  of  primitive  occupa- 
tion and  vanquished  by  feminine  civilization.  To  be 
sure,  the  large  easel  by  the  north  light  and  the  litter  of 
paints  and  sketch-boxes  on  the  window  seat  appeared 
very  much  as  it  might  always  have  done,  but  by  the 
western  window  a  couch  was  gaily  cushioned  in  yellows 
and  grays  and  a  low  table  by  it  held  books  and  photo- 
graphs, a  basket  of  sewing  and  a  bowl  of  jonquils,  while 
another  table,  bearing  a  fat  lamp  and  more  books  and 
writing  things,  stood  between  wicker  chairs  before  a 
cavernous  fireplace. 

In  the  center  of  the  room  hung  an  electric  light, 
proud  triumph  of  progress  to  madame's  heart,  and  be- 
yond a  narrow  door  was  a  small  retreat  where  the 
miracle  of  running  water  might  be  spasmodically  ob- 
served. 

As  Katherine  entered  the  studio  Madame  Bonnet 
creakingly  descended  the  stairs  from  a  trip  to  the 
lodgers  overhead,  two  American  ladies  of  middle  age, 
and  paused  upon  the  threshold,  having  a  few  words  to 
speak,  it  appeared,  upon  the  subject  of  a  blanchisseuse. 
Katherine's  choice  met  with  darkly  hinted  disapproval. 
Madame  had  her  favorites  and  played  them  vigorously. 
She  was  a  stout,  substantial  old  lady,  girdled  with  a 
medieval  jingle  of  keys.  Her  wrinkled  face  was  a  map 

41 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

of  shrewd  experience,  and  if  the  small,  bright  eyes  be- 
neath the  beetling  brows  proclaimed  a  trifle  derisively 
that  their  owner  was  no  man's  fool,  they  also  added  that 
there  were  honest  folk  in  the  world  and  she  knew  when 
she  was  treating  with  them. 

Now,  as  they  rested  upon  Katherine,  those  eyes  were 
of  a  philosophic  toleration.  That  a  girl,  so  young  and 
pretty,  with  such  yellow  hair  and  childlike  eyes,  should 
come  so  far  from  her  home  to  sit  in  an  atelier  and  copy 
naked  people,  that  she  should  make  here  a  mock  home  of 
screens  and  couches — it  was  all  part  and  parcel  of  the 
American  madness.  So  lunatic — and  so  young! 
Madame  Bonnet  had  seen  many  women  come  to  Paris 
for  some  art's  sake;  she  had  seen  many  hopes  withered 
and  many  hearts  drained,  but  she  had  never  seen  one 
quite  so  young  nor  so  exceedingly  cheerful.  She  was 
always  smiling,  this  mademoiselle — and  in  the  name  of 
Heaven,  why?  .  .  .  She  should  be  safe  at  home,  where 
the  good  God  would  send  her  a  fitting  husband,  and  not 
be  here  squandering  her  dowry  in  senseless  paint  and 
couch-covers. 

Such  were  Madame  Bonnet's  inmost  thoughts  as  she 
stood  on  her  lodger's  threshold,  discoursing  leisurely 
upon  the  blanchisseuses,  and  watched  Katherine,  kneel- 
ing triumphantly  over  a  prostrate  screen  cover,  nailing 
the  last  edge  of  gray  burlap  in  snug  place. 

Katherine  liked  Madame  Bonnet  and  liked  to  listen  to 
her  expressive  French.  Moreover  she  was  not  yet  in- 
nured  to  the  solitude  of  her  much-loved  studio,  and  was 
not  always  proof  against  the  insidious  waves  of  loneli- 
ness and  homesickness  to  which  she  never  referred  in  her 

42 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

bright  letters  home.  When  she  was  at  work  in  the 
Academic  she  forgot  everything,  but  in  the  outside 
hours  there  were  many  little  chinks  not  yet  filled,  and 
the  newness  and  foreignness  of  her  life,  so  delightful  in 
general,  held  occasional  little  aches  of  remoteness  and 
disconnection. 

She  wished  that  her  mother  and  father  could  see  her 
studio.  She  transferred  it  minutely  to  them  in  her 
voluminous  letters,  with  descriptions  of  the  Academie, 
of  Guerin,  the  master,  of  Etienne,  the  genius,  and  Olga, 
her  informant.  Her  letters  reflected  her  serenity,  her 
happy  assurance,  her  sense  of  the  miracle  of  life.  On 
one  thing  alone  were  they  silent. 

Suddenly  madame  broke  off.  She  listened,  her  head 
a-cock,  and  Katherine  waited,  her  hammer  in  her  hand. 
She  hoped  the  Whartons  would  not  arrive  until  her 
screen  was  finished  and  in  place. 

"Ah,  the  voice  of  the  monsieur  below !"  said  madame 
with  impressiveness  and  creaked  hurriedly  from  the 
room,  to  lean  over  the  rail.  In  the  silence  the  voice  of 
the  monsieur  from  below  was  distinctly  audible. 

She  turned  to  Katherine. 

"He  desires  to  know  if  mademoiselle  is  to  continue 
for  eternity?"  she  reported  simply.  "He  is  annoyed." 

"Crack!"  went  Katherine's  hammer  upon  the  next 
nail-head. 

"There  is  but  a  little  more  to  do,"  she  responded 
coldly.  "However  that  little  is  necessary." 

Madame  did  not  return  to  the  hall  with  the  com- 
munication. She  appeared  aware  that  the  gentleman 
below  had  relieved  himself  with  a  question  purely 
4  43 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

rhetorical.  She  merely  shut  the  door  behind  her  as  if 
that  diminished  the  sounds  falling  upon  the  floor. 

"I  have  a  right  to  make  a  screen,"  said  the  girl 
spunkily.  "Or  doesn't  he  let  you  rent  rooms  to  people 
who  make  screens?" 

"Of  that  he  had  said  nothing,"  replied  madame  with 
fine  simplicity.  "To  singers — no — nor  young  ladies 
who  practice  the  piano.  He  is  of  a  particularness,  that 
man !  But  then,  it  is  not  necessary  to  take  such  lodgers. 
Here  there  are  always  artists,  or  ladies  who  study  at -the 
Sorbonne,  like  the  Americans  above,  or  young  gentle- 
men at  the  Ecole  des  Mines,  or 

Afterwards  Katherine  was  a  trifle  ashamed  of  the 
vigor  of  the  blows  that  sent  those  last  nails  home.  Un- 
doubtedly she  made  the  poor  man's  ceiling  quake !  And 
since  he  was  a  sculptor  probably  he  was  sensitive  to  vi- 
brations. 

But  her  remorse  did  not  have  time  to  mount.  The 
screen  was  no  sooner  triumphantly  in  place  than  the 
Whartons  appeared  upon  the  threshold  in  Madame 
Bonnet's  stead,  their  arms  filled  with  generous  last  things 
for  Katherine  and  her  studio. 

As  they  sat  about  the  low  tea-table  in  the  western 
sunshine,  the  steam  rising  from  the  tiny  kettle  and  the 
air  fragrant  with  crisp  cakes  hot  from  the  pastry  cook's, 
Katherine  felt  a  keen  sense  of  loss  in  their  departure  the 
next  day.  She  would  miss  them.  They  were  home 
friends,  those  two  dear  Americans ;  with  them  she  had 
begun  this  miracle  of  a  foreign  year  and  their  going 
would  cut  a  stanch  tie. 

Their  interest  in  her  work  was  genuine  and  a  little 
44 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

anxious,  and  she  found  herself  enthusiastically  reassur- 
ing them  that  she  had  found  the  right  place  and  the 
right  master. 

"It's  the  only  place  where  they  really  teach  you  to 
paint !"  she  declared  with  the  fervor  of  the  disciple.  "I'm 
seeing  things  I  never  saw  before — and  I'm  doing  things- 
better  already." 

"But  that,  other  Academie  was  very  much  praised,'* 
Miss  Ellen  demurred.  "And  Monsieur  Simon  is  such  a 
delightful  gentleman " 

"Monsieur  Simon  is  a  delightful  gentleman  and  Mon- 
sieur Maynard  is  a  delightful  gallery  god,  and  they  are 
both  delightful  painters !"  exclaimed  Katherine.  "And 
they  come  in  turn  each  week  and  never  remember  you 
unless  you  have  been  there  three  years — so  Olga  says. 
Now  here  Monsieur  Guerin  knows  you.  And  he  knows 
your  work.  Why,  he  asked  me  this  morning,"  she  pro- 
ceeded triumphantly,  "why  I  made  the  same  mistake  in 
a  neck  that  I  made  in  a  pose  three  weeks  ago !" 

"Why  did  you?"  said  Miss  Anne  worriedly. 

Katherine's  lips  twitched.  "Because  necks  are  the 
very  Old  Harry,"  she  murmured  pensively.  "Now  if  it 
were  only  legs — I  could  do  a  centipede  with  assur- 
ance !" 

Something  in  the  two  pained  faces  before  her  caused 
her  to  hurry  violently  from  that  topic.  She  suspected 
that  they  would  ask  her  presently  if  the  legs  had  stock- 
ings. .  .  .  And  yet,  she  reflected,  as  she  rambled  on 
about  her  classes,  they  reveled  in  the  Old  Masters.  .  .  . 
The  distaste  was  for  masterpieces  in  the  making.  .  .  . 

She  was  telling  now  of  the  croquis,  the  sketch  classes; 
45 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

at  four  in  the  afternoon  to  which  everyone  came, 
masters,  pupils,  arrived  artists. 

"You  stay  when  you  like  and  pay  fifty  centimes  when 
you  leave,"  she  explained.  "And  such  models !  The 
beauties  who  don't  come  to  the  schools,  who  only  pose  at 
the  artists'  private  studios,  come  to  the  croquis  after 
hours  to  make  a  little  extra  money.  There  was  a  girl 
yesterday — a  young  Valkyrie !  There  was  Norse  blood 
in  her  I  know.  Tall  and  strong  and  deep  bosomed — 
with  an  arm  that  could  throw  a  spear  and  a  pillar  of  a 
neck  that  could  bear  a  helmeted  head  proudly !  And 
her  skin  was  like  silk  with  muscles  that  rippled  when 
she  moved.  They  say  Roulier  is  doing  her  as  an  Ama- 
zon. I  wonder  what  the  Amazons'  sons  were  like — and 
whether  they  stayed  on  at  home." 

"I  hope  the  things  one  hears  about  them  are  not  so," 
Miss  Ellen  observed,  sipping  her  tea. 

Katherine  stared.     "The  Amazons?" 

"The  models." 

"Oh!  Poor  things — I'm  afraid  that  they  are." 
Katherine  looked  momentarily  depressed.  "However," 
and  she  brightened,  "they  aren't  half  as  bad  as  the 
things  one  hears  about  the  Americans  here !" 

"Not  the  representative  Americans."  Miss  Ellen's 
distinction  was  rather  fine.  To  her  the  exuberant 
millionaires  of  recently  naturalized  forebears  were  no 
more  Americans  than  the  incoming  Slovak  woman  with 
her  shawled  head  full  of  superstitions.  To  be  an  Amer- 
ican one  must  inherit  spiritual  responsibilities — or  in- 
vest heavily  in  them  for  oneself. 

She  refused  severely  to  accept  as  American  that  rich 
46 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

and  rapid  clique  of  Paris  spenders  whose  gay  doings 
were  just  then  filling  the  Parisian  journals.  "That 
woman's  father,  my  dear,  was  an  illiterate  trainman. 
He  came  to  our  country  simply  to  make  money — 
the  money  which  she  is  spending  now  abroad. 
He  may  have  had  a  vote — but  I  trust  you  do  not 
call  him  an  American?"  was  her  disposal  of  the 
matter. 

It  was  a  fine  and  solitary  discrimination. 

It  was  Miss  Anne  who  on  her  way  from  Katherine's 
easel  paused  at  the  writing-table  and  discovered  a 
framed  picture  there. 

"Why,  Katherine,  this  looks  like — "  The  discovery 
leaped  from  her  lips  with  involuntary  surprise.  Then 
determinedly  she  went  on  with  it,  feeling  a  certain  re- 
sponsibility. 

"Is  it— Captain  Edgerton?" 

"Yes.  He  has  just  had  that  taken,"  Katherine  re- 
sponded with  a  brightness  almost  too  casual.  "He  sent 
it  over  this  week." 

A  queer  little  silence  fell. 

Miss  Anne  stood  looking  down  at  the  picture.  She 
noticed  that  Katherine  had  it  in  a  silver  frame.  And  she 
thought,  worriedly,  that  he  was  a  very  fine-looking 
young  man,  indeed. 

"You  are  writing,  then?"  Miss  Ellen's  tones  held  a 
cool  implication  of  wonder. 

"Why,  yes — and  when  I  sent  him  some  of  the  snaps 
that  we  had  taken  on  shipboard  he  reciprocated  with  this 
photograph."  Then  Katherine  hated  herself  for  the 

47 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

weakness  of  the  explanation.  She  took  the  picture  from 
Miss  Anne  and  extended  it  to  Miss  Ellen. 

"He's  rather  conquering  looking,  isn't  he?" 

"He  is  a  very  soldierly  young  man."  Miss  Ellen  held 
the  picture  a  moment  and  then  set  it  upon  the  tea-table, 
where  its  straight,  lifelike  glance  looked  out  directly 
upon  the  little  group. 

Katherine  felt  again  that  odd,  subtle,  hampering  sense 
of  their  disapproval  creeping  over  her.  And  why? 
Was  it  simply  the  precipitation  of  the  friendship  which 
made  it  distasteful  to  their  notions  of  dignified  pro- 
gress? Did  they  think  her  too  impulsive?  Too — im- 
pressionable? 

She  smiled  a  little  wistfully  over  the  picture's  head  at 
the  elder  woman. 

"Dear  Miss  Ellen,"  she  said,  "life  can't  always  be  a 
minuet.  Sometimes  it  must  waltz.  Sometimes  the  tempo 
is  accelerando." 

Faintly  Miss  Ellen's  fine  lips  smiled.  "So  it  would 
seem,  my  dear.  But  I  doubt  the  wisdom  of  so  much 
haste." 

"Are  the  only  right  impulses  then  the — laggard 
ones?"  said  the  girl,  resenting.  "Is  truth  never  in  first 
feelings?" 

Miss  Ellen  merely  smiled  again  with  that  arching  of 
her  brows  which  was  like  a  shrug,  and  Katherine  was 
left  with  a  sense  of  baffled  defeat.  .  .  .  She  did  not 
know  that  Miss  Ellen  was  remembering  a  day  of  thirty 
years  ago  when  a  young  man  had  brought  her  his  pho- 
tograph in  the  West  Point  uniform.  They  had  not  been 
lovers  then,  not  avowed  lovers.  .  .  .  She  remembered  his 

43 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

little  formal  speech  of  presentation.  .  .  .  And  for 
twenty-nine  years  he  had  been  lying  in  the  church- 
yard. .  .  . 

The  memory  did  not  give  her  any  sense  of  sympathetic 
kinship  with  this  other  girl  and  this  other  photograph. 
It  brought  her  only  the  loneliness  of  detachment,  the 
sense  of  remoteness  to  this  heedless  onrush  of  the 
present.  She  did  not  think  of  Katherine's  feelings  as 
being  in  the  least  like  her  feelings  of  thirty  years 
ago. 

It  was  Miss  Anne  who  made  answer  to  Katherine's 
impatient  question.  "First  feelings  may  be  quite  true 
to  the  moment,"  she  said  mildly,  "but  they  are  not  al- 
ways true  to  second  feelings — are  they?  ...  I  am  only 
afraid  that  you  are  apt  to  be  a  little  impulsive  at  times, 
Katherine — and  then  have  to  undo  it  later." 

Katherine,  drawing  fresh  water  for  their  second  cups, 
was  saved  an  immediate  reply.  She  thought,  as  she 
relighted  the  alcohol  lamp,  which  was  subject  to 
draughts,  that  if  they  had  read  in  a  book  about  her 
friendship  with  Jeffrey  Edgerton — Miss  Anne,  especial- 
ly, was  addicted  to  mild  romance — that  they  would  have 
deemed  it  a  beautiful  and  youthful  expression  of 
sincerity.  But  because  it  happened  under  their  very 
noses,  she  put  it  to  herself  somewhat  heatedly,  because 
she  was  just  an  everyday  girl  instead  of  a  book  heroine, 
why  they  thought  her  a  forward  little  minx  to  write  a 
young  man  like  that — and  let  him  send  her  photographs ! 
There  was  something  vaguely  cheapening  to  them  in 
the  greedy  haste  of  youth.  .  .  .  Her  vanity  was  sensi- 
tive to  this  thought  of  her. 

4-9 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

And  then  she  caught  at  Miss  Anne's  last  phrase. 
"Undo  it?  What  do  you  mean,  Miss  Anne?" 

"Well — you  didn't  quite  know  your  own  mind  about 
Richard  Conrad  did  you?" 

"He  didn't  always  know  his  about  me.  He  found  out 
first,  that  was  all.  .  .  .  But — but  this  is  quite  different, 
please !"  The  self-conscious  color  was  deepening  in  her 
cheeks,  but  she  spoke  with  an  assumption  of  airy  ease. 
"Because  he  sends  me  a  picture,  Captain  Edgerton  isn't 
in  the  least  a  devoted  suitor." 

"Englishmen  take  these  things  more  seriously  than 
our  men,  my  dear.  For  him  to  write  you  and  to  send 
you  his  photograph  argues  that  he  is  taking  a  real 
interest " 

"And  to  accept  the  picture  is  leading  him  on?"  Kath- 
erine  laughed  with  increasing  constraint. 

"Either  that — or  you  are  permitting  him  a  flirta- 
tion," Miss  Ellen  answered  unexpectedly  as  Miss  Anne 
hesitated.  "His  inclination  may  be  going  a  little  faster 
than  his  head  will  follow." 

It  was  a  startling  and  an  unpalatable  thought.  Kath- 
erine  betrayed  her  nai've  astonishment  in  a  soft  stare, 
and  then  she  threw  out  a  little  ripple  of  derision. 

"Am  I  so  very  ineligible,  dear  Miss  Ellen?  Don't 
Englishmen  like  young  ladies  who  paint — canvases?" 

"An  Englishman  of  position  thinks  of  more  than  his 
inclination,"  pronounced  Miss  Ellen.  "I  think  that 
water  has  boiled  enough,  Katherine." 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  .  .  .  Well — I  promise  not  to 
break  my  heart  over  him,  then.  Nor  to  let  him  break 
his  over  me.  I  guarantee  it  a  thoroughly  cooperative 

50 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

friendship  of  great  mutual  uplift  and  enlightenment," 
Katherine  ran  on  at  random,  hurrying  to  pour  out  the 
tea.  "But  now  do  tell  me  about  Versailles.  I  was  so 
sorry  I  couldn't  have  had  that  experience  with  you." 

And  she  thought,  as  she  listened  to  their  accounts  of 
the  previous  day's  trip,  that  it  was  a  fortunate  thing 
that  they  were  not  clairvoyant  to  the  letter  lying  in  the 
portfolio  upon  her  table.  For  Jeffrey  Edgerton  was 
coming  to  see  her  a  week  from  that  Saturday,  "God  and 
the  Colonel  agreeable,"  he  had  cheerily  written. 

Even  to  read  his  brief  words  brought  her  a  vivid  sense 
of  him,  tall  and  straight  and  merry,  a  vivid  feeling  of 
his  personality.  That  feeling  had  been  very  strong 
those  first  days  in  Paris.  .  .  .  The  journey  from 
Boulogne  had  been  an  outer  blank,  beneath  which  she 
had  given  herself  over  to  dreams  and  revery.  And  at 
first  even  Paris,  party-colored,  kaleidoscopic  Paris,  had 
beat  upon  the  surface  of  her  senses  in  vain.  She  had 
lent  it  no  more  than  a  veiling  attention. 

Yet  swiftly  that  dreaminess  had  worn  away.  The 
continued  impact  of  the  novel  sights,  and  the  quick 
plunge  into  the  work  for  which  she  had  come,  had  set 
up  their  reactions.  Edgerton  seemed  something  remote 
and  apart  from  her  present  life,  and  though  his  letters, 
arriving  regularly  each  week,  revivified  the  keen  sense 
of  his  personality,  they  did  not  bring  him  into  relation 
with  her  everyday  existence. 

She  was  perfectly  content  with  this.  Life  was  going 
on  splendidly.  It  was  enough  to  have  his  friendship  for 
her  speaking  in  the  interchange  of  letters  without  its 
reappearance  in  her  daily  actual  experience.  From  that 

51 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

reappearance  she  secretly  shrank,  partly  from  an  un- 
acknowledged feeling  that  it  was  putting  life  to  the 
question  too  soon,  and  the  announcement  of  his  in- 
tention to  come  was  causing  her  many  a  flutter. 

There  would  be  something  significant  in  that  meeting 
— or  something  flatly  disenchanting. 

"You  won't  like  me  a  bit  when  you  see  me  again,"  she 
had  written  him  promptly.  "My  fingers  are  always 
painty — and  I'm  so  fearfully  impressed  by  your  taking 
time  to  come  that  I  shall  be  dumb  with  awe." 

"I'll  risk  it,"  he  had  scrawled  back,  and  underscored, 
"Especially  the  dumbness!" 

The  consciousness  of  this  intimate  exchange  kept 
Katherine  a  little  flushed  and  defensive  during  the  re- 
mainder of  the  visit.  She  had  meant  to  refer,  frankly 
in  appearance  but  with  misleading  casualness,  to  the 
prospects  of  Captain  Edgerton's  being  in  Paris,  but 
now  she  closed  her  lips  upon  it. 

And  she  wondered,  with  a  sudden  gleam  of  abnormal 
insight,  if  Ellen  Wharton's  fidelity  to  the  memory  of 
that  dead  lover  was  utterly  due  to  a  broken  heart,  or  to 
some  secret  disinclination  to  the  full-bloodedness  of  sex, 
from  which  she  was  willing  to  stand  forever  apart  in  the 
sanctifying  purity  of  her  grief.  It  was  a  mere  flash  of 
transient  thought,  not  wholly  just  to  the  woman  before 
her,  but  it  held  its  element  of  truth.  .  .  . 

Katherine  felt  suddenly  tenderer  toward  Miss  Anne. 
And  she  wished  that  she  would  meet  some  thoroughly 
nice  man,  fall  tumultuously  in  love  with  him  and  marry 
him  at  the  consul's  in  post  haste. 

52 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

It  was  a  pity  these  revelations  didn't  occur. 

But  the  matrimonial  times  had  been  out  of  joint  for 
gentle,  careful  Miss  Anne. 

How  pale  life  would  be  if  it  were  done  with  splendid 
hope !  Pity  the  heart  that  never  risked  its  argosies  of 
adventure. 

In  showing  out  her  guests  downstairs  and  lingering 
over  their  last  farewells  she  blocked  the  way  of  the  man 
who  came  plunging  out  his  first-floor  door.  She  stood 
aside  to  let  him  pass  and  he  made  a  reluctant  motion 
toward  the  slouch  hat  tugged  down  over  his  black- 
browed  eyes,  but  he  did  not  send  a  glance  in  her  direc- 
tion. 

And  Katherine,  able  wholly  to  laugh  now  over  the 
encounter  of  the  afternoon,  pointed  them  gayly  to  his 
big,  retreating  back. 

"He  bites,"  she  said  mysteriously,  and  she  christened 
him  to  herself  for  all  time.  "My  neighbor — the  Surly 
Man !" 


CHAPTER    VI 

THE  little  dinner  at  the  Lilas  proved  merry.  The 
warm  April  evening  had  precipitated  an  on- 
slaught of  marble-topped  tables  upon  the  side- 
walk where  the  Boulevard  Montparnasse  crosses  the 
Avenue  de  1'Observatoire  and  as  the  two  girls  sat  at  one, 
awaiting  their  order,  what  more  natural  than  for 
Etienne  de  Trezac  to  saunter  past  with  a  friend,  and 
what  more  agreeable — as  it  happened — than  for  him  to 
ask  permission  for  them  to  dine  together? 

De  Trezac's  friend,  a  medical  student,  was  also,  it 
appeared,  a  friend  of  Olga's,  and  though  a  discriminat- 
ing spectator  might  have  observed,  at  the  first,  a  slight 
estrangement  between  them,  a  stiffness  upon  his  part, 
and  a  defensive  antagonism  upon  hers,  Katherine  was 
far  too  occupied  with  the  novelty  of  De  Trezac's  ac- 
quaintance to  perceive  those  fine  shades  of  the  past 
which  indeed  swiftly  melted  into  a  more  congenial 
though  intermittently  ruffled  present. 

Katherine  found  De  Trezac  charming.  He  seemed 
to  her  a  most  engaging  boy,  rarely  gifted,  and  all 
the  more  interesting  for  his  French  differences,  and  she 
accepted  companionship  with  him,  ready  friendship, 

54 


even,  with  that  thoughtless  confidence  which  makes  the 
American  girl  so  bewildering  to  the  foreign  observers. 

The  talk  was  rather  three-handed,  with  Katherine  put- 
ting in  only  an  occasional  interested  word  or  question. 
In  the  beginning  it  dwelt  mildly  upon  the  schools,  the 
exhibitions  and  studios,  but  presently  it  ranged  with 
freedom  and  liveliness ;  during  the  chicken  it  concen- 
trated in  a  debate  between  Etienne  and  Louis  Arnaud 
concerning  the  veracity  of  some  experiments  that  a 
noted  chemist  was  conducting,  and  by  the  salad  it  had 
veered,  unexpectedly,  to  systems  of  philosophy  with  in- 
timate and  personal  applications. 

"But  you — you  find  in  pleasure  the  end  of  life," 
Louis  asserted  gesticulating,  one  confesses,  with  a  fork. 
"That  is  the  fine  substance  of  your  philosophy !" 

"Naturally.  It  is  the  philosophy  of  all  the  world," 
said  Etienne  calmly,  "though  one  may  mask  it  with 
names.  .  .  .  What  else  is  glory,  fame,  high  office,  dis- 
covery, but  the  particular  kind  of  thing  that  delights 
one?  Pleasure — that  is  the  sap  of  gratification  which 
each  flings,  in  one  form  or  another,  to  this  monster  of 
an  ego  within."  Smilingly  he  tapped  on  his  slender 
chest.  "What  name  do  you  give  your  philosophy,  my 
friend?" 

"Achievement,"  said  Arnaud  with  a  snap  of  his  jaw. 

"Achievement  ?  .  .  .  But  that  is  to  say  that  your  am- 
bition is  the  hunger  of  your  ego  for  the  pleasure  of  dis- 
tinguishing itself  from  other  egos,  of  receiving  acclaim, 
recognition.  .  .  .  Gratified  pride — is  not  that  your 
pleasure  ?" 

"But  the  pleasure  of  achievement  is  different  from 

55 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

pleasure   in   useless    gratifications — and   distractions." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Etienne  calmly.  "It  may  be  the 
only  one  to  which  your  harp  of  one  string  vibrates,  that 
is  all.  What  you  call  distractions  may  be  the  reactions 
of  a  more  plentifully  endowed  nature." 

His  laughing  eyes  turned  to  Katherine  and  found  her 
smiling  at  his  mockery. 

"There  are  higher  pleasures/'  Louis  began  doggedly. 

"Oh,  as  to  that — granted!  There  is  the  pleasure  of 
painting  a  Venus — and  the  pleasure  of  eating  an  ome- 
let!" 

"And  the  pleasure  of  making  love  to  a  pretty  girl," 
Olga  thrust  in,  her  chin  in  her  hands.  "Do  not  forget 
that,  either  of  you !" 

They  both  laughed  on  different  notes. 

"Where  would  you  put  that  in?" 

"Oh,  above  the  omelet,  mademoiselle,  assuredly !" 

"Then  you  would  rather  paint  a  woman  than  kiss 
one?"  pursued  Olga,  with  that  impudent  tilt  of  her  little 
nose  and  mouth,  that  baffling  inscrutability  of  her  eyes. 

"If  we  are  speaking  of  generalities — yes,"  the  painter 
blandly  parried. 

"And  he — he  would  rather  dissect  a  Venus  than  em- 
brace her,"  Olga  commented,  with  a  mocking  nod  at 
Arnaud. 

"One  is  a  step  up  the  way  of  truth — and  one  a 
descent  into  delusion,"  the  young  physician  observed, 
not  without  his  own  sparkle  of  malice.  He  added, 
emptying  the  oil  cruet  upon  his  last  lettuce  leaf,  "And 
an  embrace  leads  to  bonnets." 

It  was  evident  to  Katherine  that  Etienne  shared  her 

56 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

perception  that  the  chatter  was  a  trifle  unabridged.  He 
brought  the  conversation  back  with  a  quick  thrust  at 
Louis. 

"You  perceive,  then,  that  in  your  philosophy  of  life 
which  you  call  achievement,  you  are  choosing  only  the 
gratification  of  the  pleasure  which  appeals  the  most 
strongly  to  you?" 

"At  least  I  have  chosen.  And  what  I  say  is,  that  if 
you  do  not  choose,  if  you  spin  about  with  all  the  vibra- 
tions which  you  term  the  reactions  of  your  plentifully 
endowed  nature  you  will  land  nowhere — and  the  end  of 
your  life  will  be  regret." 

"Show  me  the  life  without  regrets,"  said  Olga  sud- 
denly. 

"True — but  do  not,  at  least,  arrange  to  regret  the 
most  worthy  of  your  possibilities." 

Having  consumed  the  last  vestige  of  lettuce,  Arnaud 
wiped  up  the  plate  with  a  piece  of  bread  and  then  pushed 
it  away  from  him,  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets, 
tilted  back  his  chair  and  cocked  his  narrow,  cynical 
head  a  trifle  derisively  at  Olga. 

The  girl  suddenly  laughed.  "Your  choice  then  is  not 
hamperingly  large,"  she  gibed,  "that  choice  of  your 
'worthy  possibilities' !" 

Etienne  turned  to  Katherine  with  a  humorous  mien. 
"And  what  is  your  philosophy,  Mademoiselle  King?"  he 
inquired.  "What  do  you  seek  in  life?" 

"Happiness !"  she  gave  back  on  a  note  of  laughter, 
but  with  an  involuntary  earnestness  of  avowal.  Her 
clear,  gray  eyes,  meeting  his  dark  ones  so  frankly,  re- 
vealed a  trustful  confidence  in  her  bright  quest. 

57 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

And  then,  choosing  her  words  more  slowly,  her  faintly 
smiling  lips  seeming  to  deprecate  her  unnecessary  seri- 
ousness, she  added,  "The  happiness,  I  mean,  of  the 
realization  of  self — of  the  very  most  that  is  in  one." 

Quizzically  he  drew  his  brows  together.  "But  accord- 
ing to  our  inexorable  friend  here,  one  must  choose.  .  .  . 
What  kind  of  happiness?  The  realization  of  yourself 
as  a  painter?  Or  as  a  beautiful  woman?" 

The  medical  student  glanced  at  her  with  sudden  in- 
terest. He  was  attracted  by  her  air  of  radiant  health 
and  vitality,  by  the  freshness  of  her  color  and  the  slen- 
der firmness  of  her  white  throat  that  the  open  collar 
revealed. 

"A  beautiful  woman,  of  course,"  he  interpolated,  but 
not  without  his  air  of  underlying  irony.  "The  epileptic 
can  paint." 

The  girl  glanced  from  one  to  the  other,  her  candid 
eyes  subtly  appealing  against  their  mockery.  It  was  a 
discussion  which  she  had  often  carried  on  secretly  with 
life. 

"Perhaps  you  think  I  desire  to  eat  my  cake  and  have 
it,  too,"  she  smiled.  "But  why  must  a  woman  renounce 
herself  to  be  a  painter?  A  man  does  not." 

"But  he  places  one  thing  above  the  other,"  Etienne 
said  quickly.  "He  starves  his  wife  for  art — or  he  be- 
trays his  art  and  becomes — what  is  it  that  you  say  in 
America — a  good  provider?  Yes?" 

"Not  always.  Some  wives  understand — and  share  the 
adventure  with  them.  .  .  .  And  for  a  woman  it  ought 
to  be  easier — in  a  financial  way — because  she  is  not  the 
provider.  .  .  .  And  why  is  she  not  a  more  successful 

58 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

painter  for  being  a  woman  who  lives  life — not  evades 
it?  .  .  .  Every  experience  enriches  .  .  .  reveals " 

She  paused,  a  little  diffident  of  the  deepening  waters. 
Then,  smiling,  "Isn't  every  young  singer  who  essays  the 
great  roles  told  to  go  and  have  her  heart  broken?" 

"But  observe,  mademoiselle,  she  is  told  to  have  her 
heart  broken — not  to  realize  its  hopes,"  Arnaud  pointed 
out,  while  Etienne  watched  Katherine's  kindled  face 
where  her  youth  was  dancing  like  a  blown  flame.  "There 
is  a  difference." 

"Indeed  a  difference,  the  chance  of  life,"  murmured 
Olga  unexpectedly  pensive. 

"But  the  difference  is  in  favor  of  happiness,"  Kath- 
erine  replied  to  Arnaud.  "Cannot  one  do  better  work 
with  a  happy  heart,  with  a  full  inspiration  of  life,  a 
stimulating  gladness " 

He  interrupted.  "A  happy  heart  is  a  time-consum- 
ing affair.  ...  It  involves  the  menage — a  deadening 
domesticity.  One  does  not  paint  immortal  works  while 
one — "  he  appeared  to  interrupt  himself,  then  resumed, 
"one  prepares  the  meals,  mademoiselle — or,  if  the 
menage  is  rich,  one  plays  the  chatelaine.  A  pair  has  a 
place  in  society — and  behold  another  Moloch  for  time. 
.  .  .  But  a  broken  heart  is  another  thing.  The  affair 
is  over  and  done  with.  The  broken  heart  yields  its 
essence  of  despair.  .  .  .  The  painter  lives  in  his  work, 
feeds  it  with  that  despair,  with  that  energy  which  love 
did  not  consume.  .  .  .  Behold  the  truth !" 

But  she  would  not  yield. 

"Does  a  broken  heart  stay  broken?"  she  laughed. 
"The  heart  of  Romeo,  you  remember,  was  broken  for 
5  59 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Rosaline — and  then  he  saw  Juliet!  You  cannot  stifle 
life  of  its  meanings,  its  hopes.  .  .  .  And  is  it  not  better, 
from  your  cynical  point  of  view,  even,  to  have  a  happy 
love  affair  and  once  and  for  all  safely  occupy  the 
heart " 

"Mademoiselle  is  an  economist,  then,"  murmured  Ar- 
naud. 

"An  idealist !"  declared  Etienne.  "She  pays  the  heart 
the  tribute  of  assuming  its  constancy,  when  once  its 
affairs  have  reached  a  happy  conclusion.  .  .  .  But  is 
it  not  your  opinion,  Monsieur  Philosopher,"  he  inquired 
of  Arnaud  with  pronounced  gravity,  "that  success  in  a 
love  affair  may  prove  less — engrossing — than  a  fail- 
ure  " 

"Take  care,"  said  Olga,  in  a  low,  hostile  voice. 

"I  am  but  a  speculator — in  the  realms  of  fancy,"  said 
Louis  quickly,  with  a  gay  air.  "Who  knows  but  what 
Mademoiselle  King  is  right,  and  a  heart  relieved  by  suc- 
cess and  so  freed  from  the  strain  of  courtship  may  not 
turn  to  its  work  and  spend  itself  there?" 

"You  are  a  beast,"  said  Olga  across  the  table  to 
Etienne,  who  laughed,  and  raising  her  demi-tasse  she 
saluted  him  with  her  impudent  little  smile  but  with  cold 
eyes,  "To  your  perdition  !" 

Katherine  reflected  that  Jeffrey  St.  Preux  Edgerton 
would  judge  the  conversation  extraordinary. 

She  thought  it  a  little  extraordinary,  herself,  but 
these  were  student  days  and  to  her  comrades  she  gave 
the  students'  liberty. 

She  had  found  the  little  dinner  a  quatre  so  pleasant 
that  she  was  frankly  pleased  to  have  it  followed  by 

60 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

other  dinners — now  openly  by  appointment — and  those 
led  in  the  quickly  ripening  intimacy  of  student  associa- 
tion to  rambling  and  light-hearted  expeditions  about 
Paris  in  search  of  interest  and  diversion. 

More  and  more  she  liked  De  Trezac.  For  all  the  tre- 
mendous differences  of  their  environment  and  their  per- 
spective, differences  but  half  understood  by  her,  as  yet, 
she  was  serenely  sure  that  she  and  "Etienne,"  as  it  easily 
became  after  a  fortnight  of  their  comradeship,  under- 
stood each  other  implicitly.  And  he  was  very  good  for 
her  French,  she  wrote  her  mother  cheerily,  for  he  could 
not — or  would  not — talk  English,  and  her  French  was 
becoming  so  rapid  now  that  it  fairly  ran  away  with  her  I 

Her  Paris  days  were  settling  into  more  and  more 
sharply  defined  ways.  At  the  College  Club  she  had  met 
several  pleasant  American  girls,  but  as  most  of  them 
happened  to  be  studying  music  the  difference  in  interest 
drew  them  steadily  apart.  There  was  an  English  girl 
she  liked,  studying  art  at  Julien's,  and  she  saw  some- 
thing of  her  but  not  much  for  most  of  her  time  was 
given  to  her  own  Academie  and  the  friends  that  she  made 
there. 

Two  middle-aged  American  ladies  she  liked  immense- 
ly; good,  energetic  souls,  who  after  an  arid  youth  of 
teaching  drawing  were  at  last  realizing  something  of 
their  long-deferred  ambitions.  Fortunately  they  had 
not  yet  realized  how  fatally  deferred  those  poor  ambi- 
tions had  been.  With  them  Katherine  often  went  to 
Henriette's,  that  little  restaurant  about  which  cluster  so 
many  traditions  of  frolicsome  student  life,  and  with 

61 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

them  she  shared  the  sly  amusement  provoked  by  intrud- 
ing American  tourists,  lured  by  these  old  tales  of  high 
jinks,  and  woefully  taken  aback  upon  beholding  many 
groups  of  compatriots,  mild,  feminine,  sedate,  with  their 
sprinkling  of  gray  hairs. 

There  were  other  nights,  however,  when  Henriette's 
was  not  so  decorous.  Then  it  was  the  Americans,  the 
younger  Americans,  more  than  the  French  students, 
who  upheld  the  riotous  tradition,  but  the  most  sympa- 
thetic eye  could  not  find  in  the  babel  of  laughter  and 
corks  the  romantic  gayety  of  the  Mimis  and  the  Ru- 
dolphs of  the  past. 

These  were  the  days  when  Katherine's  work  absorbed 
her,  when  she  lived  from  day  to  day  in  an  enthusiasm 
and  ennobling  delight  that  was  like  a  spiritual  flame  in 
her.  Her  passionate  preoccupation  would  have  worn 
down  a  youth  less  buoyant  and  healthily  gifted.  She 
painted  at  the  Academic  every  morning  and  often  after- 
noons ;  but  her  habit  was  to  work  in  her  own  studio  in 
the  afternoons,  at  experiments  of  her  own  devising,  re- 
turning to  the  Academic  for  the  croquis  at  four. 

At  first  she  had  been  shy  of  herself  and  distrustful 
of  her  ability  among  these  strangers,  but  her  gift  was 
genuine  and  asserted  its  power.  And  she  had  been 
splendidly  trained  with  nothing  to  unlearn.  She 
painted,  Guerin  finally  told  her,  like  a  man.  Her  effect 
was  simple  and  bold  and  strong. 

"It  is  a  pity  you  are  not  a  man,"  Guerin  observed, 
studying  one  of  her  half-finished  canvases. 

Her  eyes  steadily,  a  little  too  defiantly,  interrogated 
liim. 

62 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"Oh,  yes,  you  understand,"  he  answered,  dryly.  "You 
see  now  how  you  work — you  know  that  you  are  painting 
against  time." 

That  held  its  barb  of  truth  for  her.  She  realized 
indeed  that  if  ever  her  work  was  to  justify  itself,  was 
to  be  of  paramount  concern  in  the  ordering  of  her  life, 
it  must  take  its  place  of  honor  as  soon  as  possible. 
Etienne,  her  fellow-student,  had  scant  sympathy  with 
work  when  it  conflicted  with  his  suggestions  for  an 
outing,  and  the  way  of  the  world  outside  that  studio 
was  to  take  it  as  the  pleasant  time-serving  of  talent,  and 
to  assume  that  what  life  had  only  to  deal  with  was  a 
gray-eyed  girl  with  a  fresh  and  wholesome  color,  and  a 
healthy  appetite  for  experience ! 

She  knew,  for  instance,  that  Jeffrey  Edgerton  no 
more  thought  of  her  painting  as  a  thing  to  be  seriously 
reckoned  with  in  his  attraction  for  her  than  he  thought 
of  her  embroidery.  Probably  he  had  not  even  attempted 
to  analyze  his  impression  upon  the  subject,  but  if  he 
had  it  would  have  been  undoubtedly  that  she  sketched 
very  cleverly  and  would  make  some  pretty  things  to 
hang  on  the  walls.  As  for  serious  work — probably  he 
thought  that  there  she  painted  badly,  very  badly  in- 
deed, but  Katherine  felt  intuitively  that  his  loyalty 
would  always  stanchly  insist  that  the  things  were  "very 
jolly." 

He  had  not  made  that  trip  to  Paris  upon  the  expected 
Saturday.  Neither  God  nor  the  Colonel  had  been  favor- 
ably enough  inclined,  it  appeared  by  the  disposition  of 
events,  for  an  absurd  epidemic  of  measles  had  broken 
out  in  his  quarters  and  he  was  quarantined. 

63 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

It  was  the  telegram  apprising  her  of  this  that  brought 
the  first  sign  of  humanity  from  the  Surly  Man. 

In  the  two  weeks  that  had  intervened  since  her  ill- 
advised  utterance  of  neighborliness  she  had  seemed  to 
run  -upon  that  man  on  almost  every  occasion — and  with- 
out the  least  softening  of  their  edged  aloofness  to  each 
other.  In  general  they  appeared  not  to  see  each  other. 
When  this  desirable  abstraction  could  not  be  main- 
tained— for  instance  when  dashing  violently  against 
each  other  in  a  bundle-laden  rush  out  a  delicatessen  door 
— his  awareness  of  her  personality — and  reception  of 
her  apologies,  for  she  had  been  the  principal  dasher,  with 
some  fatal  damage  to  an  eggy  bundle  of  his,  she  surmised 
— had  been  accomplished  with  a  maximum  of  ill  grace. 

But  when  the  telegram  came,  when  Madame  Bonnet 
handed  it  interestedly  out  to  her  from  the  little  cage  as 
she  sped  into  the  hall  on  her  return  from  the  Academie 
that  Friday  afternoon,  and  she  stood  rather  dumbly 
there,  reading  it  over  the  second  time,  a  voice  came  out 
of  the  shadows  by  madame's  recess  that  was  so  mild 
that  it  was  not  for  a  minute  recognizable  as  the  voice 
of  her  neighbor. 

"No  bad  news,  I  hope?"  he  offered,  coming  forward 
awkwardly. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Katherine  dully,  and  then,  "Why  no 
• — no.  It  doesn't  matter,"  and  she  fled  up  the  stairs  in 
a  frame  of  mind  as  distracted  as  her  stupid  speech. 
In  sharp  reaction  from  that  first  blank  disappointment 
came  cowardly  relief.  The  awkwardness  of  meeting  was 
postponed  for  a  time.  She  wouldn't  have  to  lie  awake 
to-night,  planning  what  they  would  do,  and  what  she 

64 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

would  say — feeling  foolishly  expectant  in  the  thought 
of  that  momentous  visit  .  .  .  feeling  chagrined  if  it 
fell  flat  and  uninspired.  .  .  . 

It  was  better  to  have  his  letters  going  on  as  usual. 

And  yet,  after  all,  that  was  a  very  blank  Saturday. 
iOn  the  whole,  so  her  mood  veered,  she  wished  he  had 
come  and  had  it  over  with.' 

The  first  visit  appeared  rather  humorously  in  the 
aspect  of  a  dose  of  medicine  on  whose  success  the  rest 
of  their  friendship  depended.  Decidedly  she  was  a 
young  lady  of  too  much  humor  for  her  own  tranquillity. 

Sunday,  also,  opened  very  emptily.  In  expectation 
of  Edgerton's  arrival,  she  had  declined  a  trip  to  the 
Bois  with  Etienne  and  Louis  and  Olga,  and  now  the 
perfect  loveliness  of  the  day,  the  relaxing  warmth  that 
lured  and  beckoned,  waked  restlessness  and  discontent 
as  she  sat  over  her  coffee  and  rolls  in  a  neighboring 
cremerie. 

Then  she  became  aware  that  the  Surly  Man  and  his 
small  charge  were  at  the  next  table,  also  at  breakfast. 
He  had  his  back  to  her,  his  big  shoulders  hunched  over 
his  paper,  a  coffee  cup  in  his  hand.  The  child  faced 
her,  gravely  staring  above  the  rim  of  her  mug. 

Presently  when  the  Surly  Man  wandered  off  about  the 
shop,  collecting  favorite  rolls,  the  little  thing  slipped 
deliberately  down  from  her  chair  and  came  slowly  to 
Katherine's  table,  standing  looking  at  her  with  that 
dark,  unwavering  gaze. 

"She's  not  unsocial,"  thought  Katherine,  with  a  little 
flash  of  indignation.  "She's  only — shy !" 

65 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

She  smiled,  a  little  shyly  herself  at  her  visitor,  half 
fearful  of  frightening  her  away. 

"And  what  is  your  name?"  she  said  in  English. 

"Peggy,"  said  the  child  clearly.  ''Peggy  in  English. 
•  .  .  In  French  I  am  Marguerite." 

"They  are  both  very  pretty.  .  .  .  But  which  do  you 
like  the  best?" 

A  grave  consideration  of  this  dwelt  in  the  little 
girl's  face.  Then  she  turned,  cast  a  sudden  glance 
across  the  room  at  the  Surly  Man  returning  to  the 
table  with  a  heaped  plate,  and  then  gave  Katherine  a 
look,  fleeting,  mysterious,  embarrassed. 

"Peggy,"  she  said  with  a  little  gasp,  as  if  her  reasons 
for  it  made  it  a  confession,  and  turned  and  precipitated 
against  the  Robert  that  she  adored. 

Fe\7  young  men  care  for  the  impetuous  affection  of 
a  public  attack  that  grips  them  dangerously  about  the 
knees,  but  the  Surly  Man,  though  Katherine  saw  the 
color  mount  in  his  face,  offered  no  suggestion  of  rebuke. 
Having  clasped  a  steadying  hand  an  instant  over  the 
rocking  rolls  he  put  that  hand  down  upon  the  little  girl's 
head  with  a  gesture  of  affection  that  was  curiously 
touching,  and  when  he  had  lifted  her  back  upon  her 
chair,  and  buttered  a  fresh  roll  for  her  and  refilled  her 
mug,  Katherine  registered  a  sudden,  enlightening  dis- 
covery about  him,  also. 

"Perhaps  he's  just  shy,  too !"  she  thought. 

But  that  was  not  wholly  the  case. 

It  became  the  case  for  her  thoughts,  however,  and  she 
saw  the  young  man's  gruffness  through  eyes  of  sym- 
pathy. He  was  so  oddly  alone,  with  that  little  sister — 

66 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

and  how  the  child  adored  him  !  The  English  Peggy  had 
been  dear  to  her  because  it  was  the  name  of  her  brother 
for  her — Katherine  had  divined  that  in  a  flash.  What 
old  little  things  they  were,  these  mites,  and  what  quaint 
things  went  on  in  back  of  their  heads ! 

And  as  she  watched  the  two  of  them — for  the  young 
man's  back  was  to  her  and  his  paper  again  engrossed 
him — she  saw  that  the  child  had  a  droll  way  of  drinking 
only  when  he  did.  Several  times  the  little  Peggy 
gripped  her  mug  firmly,  in  hopeful  expectancy,  but  if 
the  3roung  man  put  down  his  coffee  cup  or  his  glass  of 
water  untasted  the  child  put  down  her  mug.  When  he 
drank  she  drank,  methodically,  watchfully.  ...  It  was, 
one  of  those  queer  secrets  of  childhood.  "• 

She  wondered  if  the  man  knew,  or  if  this  hidden  play- 
went  on  unseen  through  all  their  meals. 

At  the  end  she  saw  that  he  knew.  For  he  told  the 
child  to  finish  her  milk,  and  as  she  hesitated  he  raised 
his  own  glass  with  an  air  of  beautiful  casualness  and 
kept  it  at  his  lips  until  her  milk  was  drained.  And 
Katherine's  sympathy  went  out  to  him  in  a  queerly  pity- 
ing way,  although  he  appeared  such  a  very  self-sufficient 
young  man,  stoutly  able  to  repel  all  manifestations  of 
interest. 

Perhaps  it  was  his  very  air  of  assurance  that  made 
him  all  the  more  pitiable.  The  red  wreath  on  the  child's 
hat  with  that  amazingly  blue  sash ! 

She  wished,  with  a  woman's  intrusive  and  amiable 
recklessness,  that  there  was  something  that  she  could  do 
for  them. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  chance  came  with  unexpected  suddenness.  On 
that  very  Sunday — a  lonely,  drifting  one  for 
herself,  given  over  to  letters  and  reveries  and  a 
brief  walk  upon  the  boulevards  that  disgusted  her  with 
all  strolling  Frenchmen  forever,  she  told  herself, — the 
little  Peggy  was  taken  down  with  cold  and  fever.  Upon 
Madame  Bonnet's  mentioning,  some  three  days  later, 
that  "la  petite,  la-bas,"  was  ill,  Katherine  discovered 
that  the  good  madame  was  aiding  in  the  nursing,  al- 
though monsieur  was  devoted  as  a  mother,  madame  de- 
clared, nodding  emphatically. 

Katherine  put  no  questions,  refraining  from  appear- 
ing to  interrogate  madame  upon  the  subject  of  a  young 
gentleman  and  an  arrived  sculptor,  but  she  did  make 
bold,  with  what  she  assured  herself  was  unmixed  kind- 
ness of  motive,  untouched  by  feminine  curiosity,  to  tap 
at  Robert  MacNare's  door  and  ask  if  there  was  any- 
thing she  could  do  for  the  child.  She  had  had  quite  a 
little  experience  with  her  small  brothers,  but  she  did  not 
get  as  far  as  that  in  her  little  speech  to  MacNare. 

She  met  with  a  scarcely  opened  door  and  a  curt  re- 
fusal. Thank  you,  but  no  help  was  needed. 

68 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

On  her  way  upstairs  she  thought  of  several  things 
that  she  would  like  to  happen.  Particularly  she  hoped 
that  Peggy  would  have  fits — harmless  fits,  of  course — 
in  the  night  and  he  would  come  flying  to  her,  craving 
her  skill.  .  .  . 

It  is  not  often  that  life  falls  into  the  whim  of  our  sug- 
gestions. But  two  nights  later,  events  unfolded  with  the 
thorough  retribution  of  the  third  act  of  a  tragedy. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  Surly  Man  came  knocking  at  her 
door,  a  very  distraught  and  hastily  attired  Surly  Man, 
demanding,  not  beseeching,  her  presence  on  the  floor  be- 
low while  he  went  for  a  doctor.  He  had  wakened  to  find 
Peggy  in  a  choking  paroxysm.  There  was  no  telephone 
in  the  building  and  Madame  Bonnet  was  spending  the 
night  with  a  neighbor. 

Katherine  was  a  little  scared  by  this  prompt  response 
of  fate,  and  when  she  hurried  down  with  him,  in  informal 
dressing-gown  and  slippers,  the  child's  condition  shocked 
her  beyond  all  thoughts  but  those  of  fear. 

Peggy  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  gasping  in  a  horrible, 
strangled  way.  Her  tortured  little  face  was  darkening 
with  blood. 

"What  is  it  ?  She  never  had  this — "  The  young  man 
hung  over  her  in  an  agony  of  helplessness,  one  arm 
about  the  shaking  little  figure.  Over  his  shoulder  he 
flung  a  look  that  was  a  command  at  Katherine. 

"You  run  like  the  devil  for  the  nearest  doctor!  I 
daren't  leave  her.  Try  the  one  at  the  corner.  Quick !" 

But  Katherine  had  seen  croup  before,  though  never 
such  an  extremity  as  this.  She  flew  to  the  table  where 
there  were  medicines  and  an  alcohol  heater  and  a  moment 

69 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

later  she  was  holding  a  spoonful  of  white  vaseline  in  the 
blaze,  unmindful  of  her  blistering  fingers.  Pouring  the 
warm  stuff  into  another  spoon  she  gave  it  to  the  stran- 
gling child. 

"She  must  cough  it  up,"  she  said  desperately.  "She 
must !"  And  cough  it  up  poor  little  Peggy  did,  with  the 
last  remnant  of  her  gasping  little  strength. 

And  when  her  head  drooped  back  against  the  young 
man's  arms  with  a  spent  sigh,  the  dark  color  fading 
splotchily  from  her  face,  Katherine  took  her  from  him 
and  sent  him  for  the  doctor. 

MacNare  returned  with  a  slender,  bearded  man,  whose 
keen  brown  eyes  behind  thickly  convexed  lenses  stared 
rather  hard  to  find  the  child,  made  sweet  and  fresh  in 
her  reordered  bed  drawn  out  in  the  middle  of  the  studio, 
clinging  to  the  hand  of  a  very  young  girl  in  a  blue 
dressing-gown  with  two  ropes  of  light  hair  down 
her  back  like  Marguerite's.  Katherine  had  been 
too  busy  with  Peggy  to  remember  her  own  appear- 
ance. 

Nor  was  the  doctor's  astonishment  lessened  by  Mac- 
Nare. 

"Dr.  Thibault,  this  is — er —  '  frowningly  the  Surly 
Man  confronted  his  guest.  "I  don't  believe  I  ever  knew 
your  name,"  he  blurted. 

Katherine  turned  to  the  doctor.  "I  am  Miss  King. 
I  am  on  the  floor  above  and  came  down  when  the  child 
was  choking." 

For  just  one  minute  the  Frenchman's  face  permitted 
the  revelation  of  his  thoughts.  To  have  a  girl  with  such 
hair  on  the  floor  above — and  not  to  know  her  name !  It 

70 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

was  incredible!  Then  he  devoted  himself  to  the  small 
invalid,  and  when  he  had  taken  stock  of  affairs  he 
turned  toward  Katherine  again  with  an  air  of  admira- 
tion that  had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  her  braids,  and 
paid  her  the  compliment  that  comes  only  sincerely  to  a 
physician's  lips. 

"You  would  have  made  a  good  nurse,  Mademoiselle 
King.  You  have  had  experience?" 

"With  my  brothers.  Now  if  there  is  nothing  more 
that  I  can  do ?" 

"You  have  done  everything."  He  made  her  a  grave 
bow. 

"Then  I'll  say  good-night." 

At  the  door  the  Surly  Man  shot  forward  and  gripped 
her  hand. 

"I'm  glad  you  knew  what  to  do,"  he  said  with  a  deep 
breath.  "And  I — I  want — "  Emotion  too  strong 
for  speech  was  struggling  inarticulately  within  him. 
He  did  not  lift  his  eyes  to  her  face.  Some  perception 
of  the  past  blackness  of  his  conduct  was  further  com- 
plicating his  expression. 

"I'm  so  glad  that  I  could  help,"  said  Katherine 
quickly.  And  then,  emerging  from  her  deep  relief  and 
gratefulness  into  a  very  human  triumph,  she  spread  her 
graciousness  a  trifle  expansively.  "And  if  you  need  me 
again  to-night — or  if  there  is  anything  that  I  can  do 
to-morrow  for  your  little  sister " 

Abruptly  his  hand  withdrew  from  hers. 

"She  is  my  daughter,"  he  said  hurriedly. 

Then  why  on  earth  did  she  call  him  Robert?     That 

71 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

was  what  Katherine  wanted  to  know,  staring  solemnly 
wide-eyed  in  the  dark. 

His  daughter!    How  amazing! 

It  seemed  a  disconcerting  fact,  but  presently  her  vig- 
orous imagination,  only  momentarily  stunned,  laid  hold 
of  the  circumstances  and  constructed  an  entire  story. 
And  its  pathos  reinvested  the  Surly  Man  with  that  drap- 
ing glamour  of  romance  from  which  the  first  shocked 
discovery  of  his  wedded  past  had  contrived,  curiously 
enough,  to  divest  him. 

His  young  wife  had  been  beautiful  and  adored.  Her 
death  had  broken  his  heart  and  he  hated  all  women  be- 
cause they  were  living  while  she  was  gone.  ...  So  he 
lived  alone  with  his  little  child  and  his  artist's  dreams. 

It  was  very  tragic.  And  Katherine,  having  com- 
pleted the  creation,  indulged  a  woman's  passion  for 
sequels.  She  reflected,  as  she  yielded  to  her  neglected 
sleep,  that  it  was  a  pity  that  he  was  not  ten  years  older. 
.  .  .  Miss  Anne  was  so  sympathetic — when  one  knew 
her. 

But  the  sculptor,  unfortunately,  was  not  much  more 
than  thirty. 

However,  since  he  had  done  with  youthful  romance, 
perhaps.  .  .  . 

Sleep,  impatiently,  snuffed  out  the  rest. 


L 


CHAPTER  VIII 


IVE,  live,  live!     The  sun  and  stars  shall  light 


you!" 


Forgetful  of  the  ban  upon  songstresses,  Katherine 
was  caroling  at  her  easel  shortly  after  her  return  from 
the  Academie  the  next  afternoon. 

" '  Live,   live,    live !     Some   spot    of  earth    invite 

you — 
Live,    live,   live !     Some   face   and   heart   delight 

you.'   .   .   . 

"Come  in,"  she  broke  off  her  song  to  call,  looking  over 
her  blue-aproned  shoulder  at  the  door,  expectant  of  the 
American  ladies  from  overhead  who  were  to  report  about 
some  tickets  for  a  play. 

At  sight  of  the  Surly  Man,  standing  rather  hesitantly 
in  the  doorway,  she  freed  her  thumb  quickly  from  the 
palette  and  came  forward  in  welcome. 

"Do  come  in.  How  is  little  Peggy  to-day?  I  inquired 
of  Madame  Bonnet  at  noon  and  she  said  that  she  was 
better." 

"She  is.  Much,"  MacNare  sententiously  vouchsafed. 
He  was  in  his  sculptor's  blouse,  and  his  hands,  though 
fresh-washed,  bore  unmistakable  traces  of  clay  about  the 

73 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

close-cut  nails.  It  was  evident  that  he  had  run  up  from 
his  work  on  the  spur  of  resolution. 

''But  you  are  busy,"  he  objected,  with  a  look  at  her 
easel. 

"Only  puttering.  And  I'd  do  better  to  let  it  alone 
a  bit.  .  .  .  Will  you  take  this  chair?  It's  really  man- 
size  and  comfy." 

She  spoke  rapidly,  intent  upon  pleasant  hospitality. 
There  was  something  about  this  gruff  young  man,  with 
all  his  surliness,  that  stirred  both  feminine  curiosity  and 
a  motherly  impulse  to  soften  his  aloofness. 

"No,  no — I  only  came  for  a  minute." 

Katherine  perched  on  the  wide  wicker  arm  of  a  chair 
facing  him.  She  made  no  motion  to  take  off  her  very 
painty  apron,  fearing  that  might  suggest  a  criticism 
of  his  workaday  blouse,  and  above  its  long  blue  folds 
her  fresh-tinted  face  looked  curiously  small  and  young. 

"And  is  the  croup  all  gone?"  she  asked  as  he  stood 
silent. 

"Oh  yes.  Thibault  says  that  came  from  too  heavy  a 
meal  last  night.  .  .  .  She  was  so  much  better  from  her 
cold  then  that  I  didn't  know  more  than  to  indulge  her." 

"I  expect  you  have  your  hands  full,"  she  ventured 
sympathetically. 

He  did  not  immediately  reply  and  she  saw,  to  her  sur- 
prise, that  a  tide  of  dark  color  was  rising  in  his  rather 
white  face. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,"  he  said  abruptly. 
"But  perhaps  you  are  really  a  person  who  doesn't  care 
to  be  thanked — I've  read  that  there  are  such  persons !" 

Katherine  laughed.  "Oh  no!  I  like  to  be  thanked 

74 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

very     much,"     she     said     mischievously.     "Please     go 
ahead." 

Very  blankly  he  eyed  her.  Then  meeting  her  smiling 
eyes  he  smiled,  too,  a  little  stiffly  as  one  unaccustomed 
to  this  relaxing  intimacy. 

"I  wish  I  knew  how,"  he  said.  "Your  promptness 
saved  her." 

"Oh,  you  could  have  brought  a  doctor  in  time.  But 
I  was  too  frightened  to  wait.  Croup's  a  horrible  thing. 
You're  very  fortunate  that  she  never  had  it  before.  My 
brother  Donald  had  more  than  one  siege,  poor  lad." 

Again  he  was  silent,  still  struggling,  it  appeared  with 
the  sense  of  his  deep  obligation.  "I  wish  that  there  was 
something  that  I  could  do  to  repay  you,"  he  ploughed 
on  at  last,  uncomfortably  intent,  and  she  broke  out  in 
sensitive  opposition,  "But  I'm  not  a  doctor  so  you  can't 
send  a  check!  And  is  a  little  neighborly  kindness  so 
burdensome  to  you?" 

Her  eyes  met  his  with  a  sudden  little  flash.  This  time 
it  was  he  who  smiled  the  first,  a  slow  and  reluctant  smile, 
admissive  of  that  quality  with  which  she  reproached  him. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Katherine  had  really  looked 
at  the  Surly  Man;  he  had  been  a  vaguely  featured, 
black-browed  person  draped  with  the  fog  of  both  re- 
sentments and  sympathies,  but  now  her  quick  glance 
absorbed  a  host  of  impressions.  He  was  very  black- 
browed,  indeed,  and  black-eyed,  with  heavy  black  hair 
growing  low  on  a  wide  white  forehead.  His  nose  was 
straight  and  finely  cut ;  his  cheek-bones  were  rather 
heavy;  his  mouth  had  a  grim,  locked  look,  and  his 
square- jawed  chin  was  blunt. 
6  75 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

He  looked  like  a  person  who  made  up  his  mind  about 
things  as  a  bulldog  holds  to  a  bone.  But  there  came  to 
her  the  softening  memory,  not  alone  of  his  helpless 
agony  last  night,  but  of  the  gentle  way  he  had  put  his 
hand  on  Peggy's  head  that  Sunday  morning  as  she  had 
gripped  his  knees  in  her  impulsive  onslaught. 

Very  decisively  Katherine  whisked  the  question  of 
gratitude  to  the  winds.  "Will  you  feel  better  if  I 
promise  to  have  a  spasm  some  night  and  call  upon  you? 
Then  we'll  be  even." 

Her  flippancy  elicited  no  lightness  of  response.  He  told 
her  rather  dryly,  "Yes,  I'd  feel  better  if  you  would." 

"How  you  hate  to  be  grateful!  .  .  .  But  you 
needn't  be — really.  It  didn't  make  a  particle  of  differ- 
ence between  us.  You  mustn't  bother  to  speak  to  me  any 
more  than  before,  and  when  I  make  screens  and  things 
you  can  come  and  roar  just  as  loudly  in  the  halls  !"  She 
looked  at  him  with  a  little-girl  sauciness,  swinging  a 
restive  foot.  "The  status  quo,"  she  added,  her  face 
tilted,  its  fugitive  foreshortened  lines  touched  with  a 
gamin-like  malice,  "is  undisturbed." 

He  shot  her  a  suddenly  aroused  look  under  his  dark 
brows. 

"So  you  do  bear  grudges,  after  all!"  he  commented, 
with  unexpected  amusement. 

"Not  grudges — recollections." 

"The  bear  that  walks  like  a  man?" 

"Still  you  were  very  human — once,"  in  justice  she  re- 
called. "Last  week  when  I  had  a  telegram  and  you 
asked  if  it  were  bad  news." 

"You  didn't  seem  to  know." 

76 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"Your  sympathy  upset  me." 

She  had  stirred  him,  at  any  rate  out  of  the  slough  of 
his  inarticulate  gratitude.  He  seemed  to  be  enjoying 
the  saucy  clash. 

She  went  on  quickly,  "But  I  shall  insist,  however, 
upon  being  friends  with  Peggy.  And  now  do  tell  me 
about  her.  Does  she  go  to  a  school  here?  Or  is  she  too 
young?" 

And  about  Peggy,  it  seemed,  once  the  stream  of  his 
speech  were  thawed,  he  was  pathetically  eager  to  talk. 
For  the  child  was  a  problem.  In  the  mornings  she  went 
to  a  little  'kindergarten  kept  by  French  ladies  for  sim- 
ilarly detached  French  and  American  children,  and  she 
had  her  luncheons  there  before  the  bus  returned  her, 
but  the  afternoons  were  difficult  now  that  she  was  old 
enough  to  resent  excursions  with  a  bonne.  She  had  few 
playmates  and  she  was  too  young  for  more  school. 

"She  ought  to  be  out  of  doors,"  Katherine  declared. 

He  nodded.  "I  know,"  he  said  rather  humbly.  "And 
I  do  knock  off  every  day  or  so  and  take  her  out,  but 
when  I'm  working — you  know  how  that  is?"  His  appeal 
recognized  her  as  a  fellow-worker  and  she  felt  gravely 
flattered. 

"Usually  she  amuses  herself  in  the  studio  when  I'm 
busy.  She's  got  her  paints  and  her  paper  dolls — she's 
a  self-sufficient  child.  .  .  .  And  of  course,  we  have 
each  other.  .  .  .  But  lately  I've  realized  she  ought  to 
have  more  of  a  young  life  of  her  own " 

He  was  walking  up  and  down  the  studio,  now,  his 
hands  under  his  baggy  blouse,  deep  in  his  trousers* 
pockets. 

77 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Katherine  mused  a  moment.  "I  suppose  there  aren't 
any  relatives  you  could  bring  over — ?"  she  threw  out. 

"Oh,  God,  no !  Relatives  !"  He  gave  a  stare  of  hor- 
ror. "Fancy  having  relatives  around — some  woman." 
He  jerked  a  hand  free  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his 
thick  hair. 

"Never  mind,  you  needn't  have  one,"  said  Katherine 
hastily.  "Why  not  just  get  some  nice  girl  to  take  her 
out  afternoons — say  four  a  week — to  play  in  the  gar- 
dens?" 

"I've  tried.  But  it's  not  so  easy  to  find  the  right  ones. 
Peg's  hated  most  of  them — and  when  she  hasn't  /  have." 
He  stopped  for  a  moment's  silent  recollection  of  certain 
obstructive  memories.  "Do  you  know  of  anybody?"  he 
demanded.  "I'd  rather  have  an  American  than  a 
Frenchwoman,  because  of  the  language.  Peg  knows 
more  French  than  English  now." 

"I  might  hear  of  somebody  at  the  Club,"  Katherine 
reflected.  "There  are  lots  of  nice  students  who  are  glad 
to  earn  a  little  extra  money — and  in  such  a  pleasant  way. 
I'll  find  out." 

"That  would  be  good  of  you,"  he  said  simply.  He 
seemed  to  have  a  fundamental  masculine  helplessness  to- 
ward some  of  the  practicalities  of  life,  and  she  sus- 
pected that  the  skillful  ways  she  had  witnessed  in  his 
caring  for  the  child  had  come  rather  hard  to  his  slow 
unhandiness.  Mentally  she  took  him  and  his  baby  under 
her  untried  wing. 

"I'll  find  you  a  splendid  somebody,"  she  promised 
with  an  infectious  smile.  "And  sometimes,  perhaps, 
you'll  let  me  borrow  her  for  some  out-of-door  hours? 

78 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

You  see,  I  haven't  forgotten  how  I  used  to  look  after 
my  small  brothers.  And  it  will  keep  me  from  getting 
too  homesick." 

"Homesick?"  he  said  with  a  sudden  frowning  scru- 
tiny of  her  bright  face.  A  little  quizzical  gleam  came 
into  his  dark  eyes  and  he  was  about  to  speak  when  a 
knock  sounded  and  he  turned  toward  the  door  as  Kath- 
erine  moved  to  open  it. 

Again  it  was  not  the  ladies  from  upstairs.  Etienne 
de  Trezac,  a  debonair  and  frock-coated  Etienne  with 
miraculously  creased  trousers  and  a  waxen  boutonniere 
in  his  lapel,  with  a  cane  and  a  high  hat  and  lemon-colored 
gloves  now  held  carelessly  in  his  hands,  revealed  himself 
in  conscious  splendor. 

"Oh — good-by,"  said  the  Surly  Man  abruptly.  "I 
hope  I  haven't  kept  you,"  he  muttered,  plunging  toward 
the  door  and  ignoring  the  polite  salute  of  the  young  man 
who  stood  aside  to  let  him  pass. 

As  the  door  closed  De  Trezac  turned  to  Katherine 
with  raised  brows. 

"So  you  know  Robert  MacNare  ?" 

"Why,  he  lives  below  me.  But  how  did  you  know  who 
he  was  ?" 

"How  did  I  know?"  Ironically  he  laughed.  "True, 
you  did  not  present  me — but  do  you  think  he  is  under 
a  bushel  ?  He  is  somebody — that  one !  There  is  no  one 
to  whom  Paris  looks  with  more  expectation.  Did  you 
read  what  Rodin  wrote  of  him?  No?" 

She  shook  her  head,  feeling  an  odd  surprise.  Madame 
Bonnet  had  insisted  impressively  that  MacNare  was  an 
arrived  sculptor,  but  she  had  never  spoken  of  him  to  peo- 

79 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

pie  in  the  studios  and  she  was  not  prepared  for  Etienne's 
complete  respect.  Generally  he  had  a  gibe  for  the  most 
successful  of  artists. 

His  gibe  now  was  for  other  things.  "So  he  lives  be- 
low? Well — that  is  convenient!  He  consults  you,  I 
suppose,  about  his  great  fountain?" 

"His  fountain?" 

"Did  you  not  know  of  that?  Why  to  him  was  given 
the  prize,  the  commission — but  that  is  evidently  not 
what  he  comes  to  talk  to  you  about?  No?"  Under 
his  laughter  there  was  a  stirring  of  something  she 
faintly  resented. 

"He  came  to  talk  to  me  about  his  little  daughter. 
She  needs  a  companion  for  afternoons " 

"His  daughter !"  De  Trezac's  face  registered  a  droll 
surprise.  "So  he  has  a  daughter?" 

"A  tiny  little  girl.  She  lives  with  him.  And  of 
course  he's  rather  helpless  about  her." 

The  young  Frenchman  nodded.  "Well,  well — I  did 
not  know  that  there  was  a  petticoat  in  his  life!  But 
that  is  what  is  back  of  these  hermits — cherchez  la 
femme!"  Then  he  added  with  a  flourish  of  his  lemon- 
colored  gloves,  "And  so  he  comes  to  consult  you  about 
this  daughter ?" 

"Of  course  he  does.  We're  both  Americans.  Don't 
be  absurd,  Etienne."  The  girl  spoke  sharply,  annoyed 
by  something  lurking  in  his  mockery  which  she  but 
scantly  understood. 

"I  grieve  to  have  driven  him  away.  .  .  .  But  then, 
he  has  so  many  opportunities."  There  was  something 
besides  mockery  in  De  Trezac's  manner.  That  quick, 

80 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"We're  both  Americans,"  of  hers,  had  pricked  the  male 
instinct  of  domination.  .  .  .  He  resented  it,  subtly. 
And,  being  Gallic,  he  mocked. 

"Will  you  sit  down?  Or  is  this  splendor  for  the 
Faubourg?"  Katherine  was  aware  of  his  formal  de- 
scents upon  his  sacred  at-homes  of  his  relations. 

"You  have  said.  My  grand-aunt's  day."  Etienne 
sighed  dolorously.  Then  with  retaliative  malice,  "And 
a  jeune  fille,  I  understand,  fresh  from  the  provinces,  and 
lovely  as  the  dawn.  A  veritable  treasure.  Ah,  those 
jeune  filtes  of  my  family's  designs !"  Then  he  permitted 
himself  to  smile,  "However,  this  one — there  is  always 
expectation." 

"How  you  will  dazzle  her !"  Katherine  mocked  in  her 
turn. 

"Without  saying,"  the  young  man  responded  equably, 
strolling  to  the  little  French  mirror  with  its  encircling 
Cupids  which  Katherine  had  rescued  from  a  second-hand 
shop,  and  settling  his  tie  with  elaborate  care. 

"Well,  I  must  be  off,  Katherine.    I  but  came  to " 

"To  dazzle  me?"  she  laughed  going  back  to  her 
neglected  easel  and  looking  at  him  over  her  shoulder. 

"To  give  pleasure  to  your  eyes,"  he  agreed  gayly. 
"A  fine  livery  for  a  free  man,  nest-ce  pas?"  He  made 
a  movement  of  derision  toward  his  holiday  attire. 

"You  know  you  really  dote  upon  it — and  your  Fau- 
bourg," she  murmured,  picking  up  her  brushes  with 
fingers  still  sore  from  last  night's  burns. 

He  turned  back  at  the  door.  "How  busy  you  are. 
Am  I  to  descend  noisily — so  that  Monsieur  MacNare 
will  be  aware  of  my  departure  ?" 

81 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"You  forget  that  I  can  pound  on  the  floor,"  she  gave 
back  laughing. 

To  her  astonishment,  for  she  suspected  nothing  more 
in  him  than  mischief,  he  colored. 

"Truly.  .  .  .  Adieu,"  he  said  abruptly,  and  was 
gone. 

She  only  laughed  to  herself  as  she  added  a  reckless 
blue  to  the  sky  in  the  canvas.  "What  a  boy  he  is,"  was 
her  uncomprehending  thought  and  it  struck  her  as  drolly 
irrational  for  one  to  think  of  Robert  MacNare  as 
accessible  to  feminine  interest.  .  .  .  To  her  he  was  a 
man  apart.  She  thought  of  his  past  and  his  grief  as 
something  impenetrable,  impassable  .  .  .  permanent. 
.  .  .  But  Etienne,  she  reflected,  was  incorrigibly 
French. 

Nothing  that  he  had  said  made  her  in  the  least  self- 
conscious  in  her  eager  young  desire  to  be  "nice"  to  the 
Surly  Man  and  help  him  with  his  problems  and  his 
Peggy.  Life  seemed  to  have  hurt  him  so  badly  that 
she  gave  free  rein  to  her  generous  sympathies,  and  that 
fatal  instinct  of  hers  for  giving  pleasure. 

Besides,  she  was  so  happy  herself  that  it  was  a  neces- 
sity to  make  others  happy.  Jeffrey  Edgerton  had  writ- 
ten ;  another  date  was  set,  the  first  Saturday  after  his 
release  from  the  quarantine,  and  her  spirit  was  on  tip- 
toe with  expectation. 

The  other  disappointment  had  been  so  keen  that  she 
had  lost  in  it  her  dread  of  the  awkwardness  of  the  visit. 
She  only  knew  that  she  wanted  him  to  come. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  the  shadow-spangled  restaurant  of  the  Bois,  where 
violins  wailed,  and  the  velvet-shod  waiters  came 
and  went  like  genii,  the  light  of  the  pink-shaded 
candles  lay  like  a  blush, of  pleasure  on  the  little  table. 
Between  the  pink  candle-shades  the  girl's  face  shone  to 
Jeffrey  Edgerton  like  a  rose  tipped  with  sunshine. 
Happiness  was  dancing  on  her  eyes  and  lips. 

In  her  youthful  white  frock,  with  its  mild  display  of 
her  slender  throat  she  seemed  enchanting  to  him.  His 
memories  of  the  boat  had  always  been  of  the  out-of- 
doors,  of  blowing  hair  and  wind-flushed  cheeks  and 
jaunty,  boyish  coats.  Now  in  the  sophistication  of  this 
Paris  restaurant  she  had  taken  on  new  grace  and  dignity 
and  her  charm  was  more  feminine  and  more  alluring. 
The  intimacy  of  the  little  meal  a  deux  had  woven  its 
spell.  Being  fanciful,  he  thought  it  was  like  having  a 
nymph  of  spring  opposite  one,  and  being  in  love,  he 
thought,  "How  jolly  to  have  her  always  like  that  at 
table !" 

Unconsciously  he  was  grateful  to  her  for  being  all  that 
he  had  dreamed.  It  had  not  been  a  simple  thing  to  do — 
this  dashing  off  for  such  a  pursuing  sort  of  visit.  He 

83 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

was  tremendously  aware,  even  in  the  winged  rush  of  his 
attraction,  of  all  the  implications  and  the  weight  of 
things  involved.  He  knew  that  he  was  taking  what  he 
very  seriously  called  a  "decisive  step."  .  .  .  And  he 
might  be  taking  it  toward  a  possible  misadventure,  an 
awkwardness,  a  disappointment.  Suppose  she  were  not 
all  that  his  fancy  had  pictured  her !  He  had  faced  that 
contingency  very  clear-eyedly  in  crossing,  but  he  had 
forgotten  it  utterly  at  the  first  sound  of  her  light,  ap- 
proaching feet.  And  now  they  had  had  Saturday  din- 
ner together  and  Sunday  luncheon  and  Sunday  tea,  and 
this  was  Sunday  dinner  and  in  a  few  brief  hours  it  would 
all  be  over  and  he  would  be  taking  his  way  back  to  Eng- 
land and  his  post. 

But  he  was  too  happy  now  to  feel  the  wrench  of  that. 
He  was  so  proud  of  her,  so  openly  glad  at  being  with 
her,  that  this  seemed  the  only  reality  in  the  world. 

He  wondered  about  her.  Was  it  possible  that  this 
visit  could  mean  as  much  to  her  as  to  him  ?  .  .  .  But  was 
it  possible  that  he  could  misread  the  bright  candor  of 
those  eyes?  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  surely  com- 
ing with  him  down  the  same  spring-enchanted  way — ' 
otherwise — why,  otherwise,  life  would  be  too  cruel,  too 
bitter.  And  Jeffrey  Edgerton  had  youth's  glad  confi- 
dence in  its  own  conquering  destiny. 

Almost,  being  impetuous  and  a  lover,  he  was  tempted 
to  put  some  decisive  speech  to  her  now,  but  the  leash  of 
common-sense  still  held.  He  knew  that  it  was  too  soon. 
Dimly,  without  in  the  least  analyzing  it,  certain  reti- 
cences of  hers,  certain  fleet  intangible  withdrawals  be- 
fore too  pressing  a  moment,  had  made  him  aware  that 

84 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

precipitation  would  commit  himself  to  her  uncertainties. 

Even  in  love  he  kept  his  head.  A  committed  lover  is 
less  interesting.  .  .  .  Besides,  a  restaurant  was  not  the 
place. 

A  little  silence  had  fallen  upon  them.  In  the  hours 
that  had  just  been  passed  together  there  had  not  been 
many  silences ;  with  the  eager  freshness  of  children  they 
had  been  busied  remaking  each  other's  acquaintance. 

They  had  laughed  away  the  first,  fleet  constraint  of 
meeting.  And  her  secret  anxieties  as  to  what  to  do  with 
him  those  many  hours,  her  guileless  plans  and  decisions, 
had  been  wasted  for  Jeffrey  knew  his  Paris  and  had  his 
own  plans  of  pleasant  authority.  There  had  been  a  late 
dinner  Saturday,  and  a  rambling  stroll  through  favorite 
streets  where  the  lamps  winked  up  at  them  from  the 
smooth  Seine :  there  had  been  that  day  a  motor  to  Ver- 
sailles and  a  glimmering  noon  of  April  brightness,  of 
playing  fountains  and  holiday  crowds ;  there  had  been 
a  fleet  dash  back  to  town,  and  then  tea  in  her  studio  as 
she  had  planned,  and  then — after  an  interval  for  rest 
and  dress — this  last  dinner. 

And  in  all  that  time,  in  all  that  strenuous  youthful 
dose  of  each  other's  society,  not  one  moment  but  of  deep- 
ening pleasure.  That  was  the  young  miracle  of  it. 
Their  talk  had  ranged  with  the  freedom  and  easy  inter- 
est of  youth;  she  had  given  him  gay  accounts  of  the 
Academic,  of  her  acquaintances  there,  of  Olga,  of  De 
Tre/ac,  of  the  Club  with  the  pleasant  girls,  of  her  studio 
and  her  encounters  with  the  Surly  Man.  She  narrated 
with  becoming  lightness  the  adventure  of  the  croup  and 
was  not  ill-disposed  to  the  admiration  which  it  evoked 

85 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

in  her  devoted  listener.  That  the  notion  which  Edgerton 
received  from  her  droll  sketch  of  her  neighbor  was  that 
of  a  crabbed  and  slightly  elderly  man,  was  not,  of 
course,  to  be  attributed  to  her  intention.  She  did  not 
really  think  of  him  as  young.  .  .  . 

And  Edgerton,  in  his  turn,  had  his  narrations.  He 
had  brought  one  or  two  snapshots  to  supplement  them 
of  his  quarters,  his  fellow-officers  and  of  his  country 
home.  The  pictures  gave  only  glimpses  of  Edgerton 
Hall,  drolly  foreshortened,  but  they  were  glimpses  of 
a  lovely  house  front,  overhung  with  ivy,  of  an  old  tower, 
casement-windowed,  and  of  gardens  sloping  to  a  river, 
their  walks  flanked  by  old-fashioned  flowers. 

"It's  not  much  of  a  place,"  had  said  Jeffrey  modestly, 
"but  it's  very  jolly.  And  the  gardens  are  great.  To 
me  they're  the  sweetest  spot  in  England." 

"They  look  lovely,"  Katherine  had  given  back,  rather 
shyly. 

"I  thought  I  had  a  good  one  of  the  rose  garden,  but 
Fred,  the  scamp,  had  secretly  taken  his  pony  on  that 
film  and  forgotten  to  wind  it.  ...  You'd  like  the  rose 
garden.  It  has  a  wall  about  it  and  a  gate  and  a  jolly 
old  sun-dial  in  the  center.  .  .  .  Mother  loves  it.  She's 
famous  for  her  roses." 

"So  is  my  mother,"  Katherine  had  answered  with  a 
sudden  laugh  of  whimsical  amusement.  "But  she  hasn't 
any  rose  garden  and  wall  and  sun-dial — just  a  little 
side  yard  and  an  arbor — but  she  has  the  most  wonder- 
ful crimson  rambler  over  it  in  town  !  And  there's  a  Dor- 
othy Perkins  on  the  porch  that  has  figured  in  many  a 
number  of  seed  catalogs  !" 

86 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"I  know  it's  charming,"  Edgerton  had  instantly 
agreed. 

She  had  shaken  her  head  at  him  drolly,  "Oh,  no  you 
wouldn't  think  it,  really!  For  we  haven't  any  park 
about  us,  and  any  sheep  in  the  meadows  and  deer  in 
the  woods !  And  our  neighbors  on  one  side  are  so  near 
that  we  look  in  each  other's  dining-room  windows  and 
in  summer  we  can  hear  everything — and  he  isn't  a  pro- 
fessor that  father  likes !  It's  too  bad  that  all  you  know 
of  America  is  an  estate  on  the  Hudson.  You  can't  pic- 
ture the  rest  of  us  at  all." 

He  had  smiled  at  her  in  silence,  not  trusting  speech. 
For  how  could  he  tell  her,  without  seeming  a  clumsy 
flatterer,  that  that  unknown  environment  must  be  the 
rarest  in  the  world  since  it  had  produced  such  a  miracle 
of  a  girl,  innocent,  intelligent,  self-reliant,  brimming 
with  young  laughter  and  simple  friendliness? 

But  his  eyes  had  not  been  dumb  and  that  moment  at 
Versailles  was  among  the  most  golden  of  her  memories. 

Now,  in  the  little  quiet  that  had  fallen  on  them  at  the 
close  of  dinner  they  drained  their  tiny  coffee  cups  and 
Edgerton  drew  out  a  slim  cigar  from  a  dark  enameled 
case  and  asked  for  her  permission. 

As  she  assented,  as  the  attendant  waiter  leaped  from 
the  outer  gloom  to  the  ritual  of  the  lighting,  she  found 
herself  thinking  how  natural  it  seemed  to  have  him  there 
•with  her — just  as  it  used  to  seem  natural  to  round  the 
corner  of  the  deck  and  find  him  tramping  toward  her, 
his  head  bent,  his  cap  pulled  low,  his  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

At  that  memory  she  laughed  softly.  "It  should  be 
your  pipe,"  she  murmured  nodding  at  the  cigar. 

87 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"You  remember  the  pipe?" 

With  a  ludicrous  little  moue,  "It  made  a  very  strong 
impression  upon  me." 

He  feigned  alarm.  "Oh  come,  you  haven't  it  in  for 
my  pipe!  What?  I  always  use  very  good  'baccy." 
And  he  added,  his  blue  eyes  teasing,  "You  know  I  should 
hate  to  give  up  my  pipe!" 

"You  wouldn't !"  she  retorted.  "  'A  woman  is  only  a 
woman ' ' 

He  saw  the  sensitive  color  rise  in  her  cheeks  as  she 
broke  off.  After  all  why  not  in  a  restaurant? 

"Remember  that  sketch  of  the  pipe — and  me — that 
you  made?"  he  suddenly  demanded.  Perhaps  he  felt 
speech  was  safest. 

She  nodded,  a  mischievous  sparkle  in  her  face. 

"I've  it  framed.  On  my  desk.  It — it  always  makes 
me  think  of  the  way  you  looked  when  you  saw  me  look- 
ing at  it !" 

"I  ought  to  have  looked,"  murmured  the  girl  ob- 
scurely. 

"That's  my  mascot,"  said  the  Captain  fondly.  "If 
it  hadn't  been  for  that  bit  of  paper — flying  out  across 
my  path " 

Katherine  suddenly  giggled.  There  was  something 
little-girlish  and  guilty  in  that  giggle  which  brought 
the  young  man's  eyes  to  her. 

"Can't  you  guess  why  it  flew  across  your  path?"  she 
suddenly  demanded,  her  eyes  alight  with  mischief. 

"Eh?     What?" 

"I  threw  it." 

"You— threw  it?" 

88 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"I  did."  She  was  softly  laughing  at  his  mystification. 
"I'd  just  finished  it.  And  you  came  tramping  by  again, 
so  lordly  and  aloof,  that  a  horrid  impulse  seized  me.  I 
wanted  you  to  see  yourself  as  others  saw  you.  I  thought 
you'd  be  furious.  It  wasn't  flattering,  you  know.  .  .  . 
And  so — I  let  it  go — on  the  wings  of  chance.  The  wind 
did  the  rest." 

She  laughed  again,  that  little  prankish  ripple  of  a 
laugh  that  enchanted  him. 

He  affected  sternness.  "You — minx !"  he  brought  out. 
"I  thought  you  looked  like  a  kitten  in  the  cream — and 
I  thought  it  was  for  discovery  of  your  wicked  pencil 
and  I  was  sorry  for  you.  Sorry !  Ha !" 

"That  was  when  I  began  to  like  you,"  she  amiably 
confessed. 

"You  began  to  like  me !" 

"It  had  to  have  some  beginning  on  something !  You 
didn't  suppose,  did  you,  that  I — I  evolved  this  violent 
friendship  on  first  sight?" 

But  that  was  an  unfortunate  speech.  It  brought 
back  the  memory  of  that  actual  first  sight,  and  a  wave 
of  hasty  color  surged  into  her  cheeks  and  into  his.  Once 
they  had  treated  that  encounter  laughingly  but  now  that 
note  was  too  forced.  He  felt  shot  with  pain  that  an- 
other man's  arms  had  been  around  her,  another  man's 
lips  had  gathered  her  sweetness  to  himself,  even  in  the 
renunciation  of  farewell.  .  .  .  He  lowered  his  eyes  from 
that  flushing  face,  that  sensitively  trembling  mouth.  .  .  . 

Her  own  eyes  were  on  her  plate.  She  felt  hot  shame 
at  the  simple  friendliness  which  had  yielded  her  cheek 
to  Dick  Conrad.  In  deepening  self-consciousness  she 

89 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

felt  as  if  she  had  ignorantly  squandered  a  secret  treas- 
ure. .  .  .  And  to  have  been  overseen,  misinterpreted 
by  him.  .  .  .  Yet  after  all,  she  had  been  no  more  than 
a  friend  to  Dick.  No  more. 

Jeffrey  leaned  across  the  table,  his  lowered  voice  a  lit- 
tle strained.  "May  I  ask  you — I  know  I've  not  the 
least  right — but  is  that  other  man  quite  gone  from  your 
life,  your  thoughts?  Is  it  a  clear  field?" 

She  raised  her  lids  till  her  eyes  were  looking  into  his. 
They  were  dark  as  pools  of  shadowed  water  beneath  the 
heavy  lashes. 

"Don't  you  understand,"  she  said  quietly,  "that  it 
could  never  have  been — I  could  never  have  let  him  kiss 
me  good-by — if  he  had  been  anything  to  me?  He  was 
just  a — dear  friend."  Her  voice  trembled  slightly.  "He 
is  a  dear  friend  now — but  a  very  droll  one.  For  he  has 
quite  accepted  the  fact  that  I'll  never  be  more  to  him  and 
to  prove  his  own  friendship  and  to  save  his  pride  per- 
haps, he  writes  me  the  oddest  of  jocular  letters.  .  .  . 
Some  day  he'll  announce  in  them  the  discovery  of  the 
one  and  only  girl.  Then  he'll  forget  that  he  ever 
thought  of  me  but  as  a  friend." 

"That  wouldn't  be  possible,"  said  Jeffrey  with  a 
clipped  little  smile.  "Was  he — forgive  me,  but  I  would 
like  to  know — was  he  someone  that  your  parents  would 
have  cared  for  you  to  marry  ?" 

Katherine's  eyes  grew  vague.  "Dick  is  a  dear  boy — 
and  his  father  is  a  millionaire — "  she  felt  a  queer  little 
pride  in  bringing  that  home  to  Edgerton — "and  my 
people  would  have  been  quite  glad  if  I  had  loved  him, 
but — but  they  never  said  one  word  to  advise  it.  And 

90 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

if  I  loved  the  town  doctor's  son,  who  is  also  a  dear  and 
•very  good  to  his  mother,  they  would  have  been  just  as 
pleased,  if  you  can  believe  it.  They're  tremendously 
unworldly  souls.  .  .  .  But  I — I  did  think  about  it,"  she 
confessed.  "I  liked  Dick — and  I  wanted  to  be  able  to  do 
things  for  people,  and  have  things — yes,  and  I  wasn't 
sure  that  I'd  ever  care  for  anybody  else,  in  a — a  differ- 
ent way.  And  all  the  books  are  full  of  regretted  might- 
have-beens." 

She  laughed  uncertainly.  "And  so  I  did  think  about 
it.  But  I  didn't  want  to.  And  my  painting  saved  me. 
It  took  me  away  and  kept  me  free  for  the  chance  of  life 
— the  splendid  chance " 

She  brought  it  out  radiantly  with  shining  eyes.  Her 
face  was  like  a  suddenly  glowing  mirror  that  gave  to 
him  the  stirred  depths  of  her  feeling.  ...  It  was  a  magic 
phrase  to  her.  It  voiced  that  deep  craving  in  her  soul 
for  high  adventure  in  living,  for  glorious  excitement, 
for  fine  passionate  experience  that  would  be  the  climax 
of  all  living.  .  .  .  Watching  her,  the  young  man  felt 
both  the  glow  of  answering  youthful  enthusiasm  and  a 
leap  of  anxious  pity  for  so  sentient  a  creature,  knowing 
so  little,  expectant  of  so  much,  exposed  so  confidently  to 
all  the  world  might  do.  .  .  .  All  the  masculine  impulse 
of  protectiveness  rose  in  him.  .  .  .  He  felt  a  sudden  de- 
sire to  clasp  that  slim  hand  lying  on  the  table.  .  .  .  He 
wanted  to  be  alone  with  her,  to  speak  his  ardor,  his  de- 
votion. 

The  waiter  brought  the  bill.  His  train  was  inex- 
orable. 

The  ride  back  under  an  April  sky  sown  with  stars 
7  91 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

was  a  silent  one.  He  was  solicitous  for  her  comfort  but 
his  hand  did  not  outstay  its  privilege  of  drawing  the 
wraps  about  her.  In  him,  more  than  in  her,  was  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  exceptional  conditions  of  their  com- 
panionship, of  her  trustful,  chaperonless  estate.  Every- 
thing that  was  chivalrous  in  him  restrained  him,  but  his 
look,  at  parting  at  the  door  of  her  building,  was  charged 
with  a  sudden  flash  of  revealing  attraction  that  sent  her 
from  him  on  the  winged  feet  of  dreams. 


CHAPTER    X 

THAT  visit  added  a  conscious  excitement  to  her 
life,  a  quickening  sense  of  something  stirring 
about  to  happen.  .  .  . 

It  was  no  longer  possible  to  think  of  her  friendship 
with  Jeffrey  Edgerton  as  a  thing  apart  from  her  every- 
day world  for  he  had  crossed  the  threshold  of  her  Paris 
days,  and  though  his  visit  remained  something  un- 
merged,  separate,  distinct,  her  sensitive  memory  was 
constantly  flashing  forth  pictures  of  his  presence. 

Those  few  hours  seemed  to  have  peopled  her  Paris 
with  recollections.  There  were  the  magic  streets  she 
had  walked  with  him,  the  cabs  she  had  taken,  the  meals 
she  had  shared.  There  was  the  tea  in  her  studio.  And 
she  would  look  up  sometimes  from  a  letter  she  was  writ- 
ing and  see  him  there,  young  and  soldierly  erect,  in  her 
big  wicker  chair. 

And  she  remembered,  with  a  queer  little  smile  hover- 
ing about  her  lips,  that  he  had  totally  forgotten  to  ask 
to  see  her  work,  had  never  once  looked  at  the  easel  at 
the  study  of  a  head  which  she  had  carefully  arranged 
there.  .  .  .  Yet  her  smile  was  not  the  smile  of  a  dis- 
pleased artist,  but  a  woman's  smile.  .  .  . 

93 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

However  she  did  not  neglect  her  work  in  those  days. 
She  worked  hard.  It  was  not  entirely  that  she  was 
painting  against  time,  as  Guerin  had  accused,  though 
something  of  that  feeling  unconsciously  goaded  her,  but 
the  creative  spirit  in  her  was  deepening  and  taking  on 
new  strength  and  impetus.  She  had  that  sense  of  alive- 
ness  which  comes  to  the  creative  artist  in  the  freshness 
of  his  mood,  that  feeling  of  power  surging  and  tingling 
to  the  finger-tips. 

The  world  appeared  wonderful.  She  felt  herself  in  a 
blessed  place  in  it,  with  heart-happiness  and  work-happi- 
ness like  Aurora's  steeds  at  her  chariot. 

There  was  a  feeling  of  impending  gladness  in  the  air. 
Her  gayety,  her  exuberance  dived  and  circled  like 
swallows  through  all  her  moods.  Everyone  was  twice 
as  delightful  as  before — Etienne  was  charming,  Olga 
was  droll,  the  Surly  Man  was  touching  in  his  new-found 
efforts  at  amiability.  With  so  much  inner  happiness  it 
was  impossible  not  to  pour  it  out  upon  every  circum- 
stance of  her  life. 

Not  a  thought  of  folly  crossed  her  careless  mind. 
Etienne  de  Trezac's  finished  compliment  of  manner  to 
her  she  discounted  as  part  of  his  foreignness,  and  the 
gay  pretense  of  devotion  which  he  more  and  more  as- 
sumed upon  their  expeditions  was  all  part  of  the  charm- 
ing nonsense  of  their  relation.  Etienne  was  French ;  he 
belonged  in  a  romantically  exclusive  Faubourg;  he 
would  some  day  have  a  title  and  income  and  marry  a 
jeune  fille.  .  .  .  These  were  student  days.  .  .  . 

She  was  perplexed,  to  be  sure,  by  certain  freedoms 
between  Olga  and  Louis  Arnaud.  They  made  less  and 

94 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

less  pretense  of  concealing  various  intimacies  of  affec- 
tion— his  arm  about  her  in  a  cab,  in  the  Bois,  or  at 
some  of  the  promiscuous  bals  which  their  curiosity  led 
them  to  penetrate.  But  it  was  not  these  casual  freedoms 
which  provoked  Katherine's  speculation  as  much  as  cer- 
tain intangible  elements  in  their  manner  to  each  other. 
They  quarreled  furiously  at  times.  Katherine  often 
heard  Olga's  low  angry  voice  some  distance  behind  them 
on  their  walks,  yet  these  storms  never  lasted  long.  And 
Olga  never  explained  them. 

"Louis  is  a  bete!"  she  would  exclaim  disdainfully. 
She  always  spoke  of  him  in  terms  of  airy  superiority  and 
her  manner  to  him  often  was  of  insufferable  imperti- 
nence, yet  it  was  generally  she  whose  angers  veered  first 
into  contrition. 

Neither  of  them  restricted  themselves  to  the  society 
of  the  other  and  Katherine  gathered  that  these  ex- 
cursions into  fancy's  fields  were  the  cause  of  some  of 
the  acrimonious  disputes. 

Her  notion  was  that  some  sort  of  sweethearts'  under- 
standing existed  between  them,  opposed  by  difficulties  of 
time  and  means,  and  perhaps  position,  for  Arnaud's 
family  might  be  above  the  orphan  daughter  of  a  wild 
Russian  boyar  and  a  lower  caste  Frenchwoman,  living  in 
such  un-French  independence  on  the  little  income  the 
Russian  father  had  left. 

April  had  flowered  into  May  and  May  had  blossomed 
into  June.  The  misty  laciness  of  the  trees  was  lost  in 
luxuriance ;  the  sky  was  like  broad,  bright  washes  of 
water-color.  Every  silvery  stone  of  the  gray  old  build- 
ings ;  every  arch  of  the  bridges  and  gleam  of  the 

95 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

river  was  translated  into  stronger  and  brighter  effect. 

The  Americans  were  in  possession  of  Paris.  The  big 
hotels  were  crowded;  the  streets  flashed  with  motors 
bearing  beautifully  gowned  women  on  their  rounds ;  the 
windows  glittered  with  jewels  and  glowed  with  chiffons. 
Laurent's  and  Paillard's  were  crowded  luncheon  centers ; 
there  were  gay  throngs  at  tea  on  the  terraces  above  the 
Seine;  the  songs  of  violins  harmonized  the  discordant 
shrillness  of  human  chatter  at  the  restaurants  at  the 
Bois  or  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris ;  the  theaters  were  visions  of 
costumes. 

Katherine  felt  a  touch  of  the  invasion  in  the  increas- 
ing prices  in  the  big  shops.  Other  Americans  were  there, 
too ;  her  own  kind  as  she  called  them — happy,  eager- 
looking  people,  with  Baedeckers  and  little  books  under 
their  arms,  looking  up  galleries  and  tariffs,  pilgrimag- 
ing to  the  Louvre,  to  Versailles,  to  Les  Invalides,  climb- 
ing Notre  Dame.  .  .  .  Some  penetrated  even  to  the 
threshold  of  her  school  and  her  restaurants. 

More  and  more  of  these  came  as  June  went  by  and  the 
vacation  terms  released  the  teachers  and  often  she  en- 
countered acquaintances,  or  acquaintances  of  acquaint- 
ances, and  the  little  tea-kettle  on  her  table  boiled  at 
several  hospitable  parties. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  that  the  Surly  Man  unexpect- 
edly opened  the  door,  and  then  turned  as  if  he  would 
bolt,  but  Katherine's  quick  call  stayed  him. 

"Do  come  in,"  she  invited.  "We've  been  talking1 
about  you — for  we've  just  been  at  the  Salon  and  seen 
your  Prophet." 

96 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

A  perceptible  thrill  ran  through  her  guests,  two 
teachers  and  a  young  niece  of  theirs. 

"Have  you  a — a  piece  of  art  gum?"  said  MacNare 
abruptly,  demanding  the  first  thing  his  eyes  fell  on. 
"I'm  in  a  hurry  for  a  bit " 

With  a  strong  suggestion  of  intercepting  him,  Kath- 
erine  flew  to  the  cube  of  it  that  he  was  eying.  Not  for 
him  so  simple  an  escape !  There  was  mischief  in  her 
eyes. 

"But  you  must  meet  my  guests,"  she  declared  and 
rushed  the  introductions  as  if  fearing  a  bolt  in  the 
middle  of  them.  "Won't  you  take  some  tea  with  us?'* 
she  added  wickedly. 

"Never  drink  it,"  he  uttered  hurriedly,  but  by  now 
the  ladies  had  found  their  tongues,  and  were  trying  to 
tell  him  how  much,  how  very  much,  his  work  had  meant 
to  them,  and  especially  his  wonderful  Prophet.  And 
was  it  any  particular  prophet  or  just  a  symbol? 

They  hastened  to  say  all  the  kind  and  flatteringly- 
meant  things  which  much  impressed  and  none-too-re- 
sourceful ladies  can  find  to  say  to  the  greatness  of  the 
moment,  and  MacNare  glowered  unresponsively  upon 
them  and  edged  to  the  door. 

"But  we  mustn't  drive  you  away — we  were  just 
going,"  one  of  the  ladies  protested  and  the  rest  rose 
obediently,  gathering  their  wraps. 

"But  I'm  going.  I  must  get  back  to  my  work,"  said 
MacNare,  and  the  eldest  lady  in  ill-omened  inspiration, 
turned  to  him  with  deprecating  but  insinuating  sweet- 
ness. 

"And  your  studio  is  just  under  this,  isn't  it?  Dear 
97 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Miss  King  has  been  telling  us  a  little  about  it.  ...  I 
know  it's  a  great  favor  to  ask,  Mr.  MacNare,  and  from 
such  strangers,  too,  but  perhaps  as  dear  Miss  King's 
friends  and  fellow-Americans  and  such  admirers — you 
would  let  us  just  peep  in  the  door  and  see  some  of  those 
beautiful  things  in  the  making ?" 

MacNare's  dark  glance  flitted  past  the  three  sup- 
pliants and  laid  the  burden  of  its  wrath  upon  Katherine 
— who  twinkled  back  impish  delight. 

"There's  nothing  to  be  seen,"  he  said  crisply.  "Noth- 
ing I  want  anyone  to  see." 

"Oh  but  surely — we  understand — if  you'd  just  make 
us  an  exception?"  the  lady  breathed,  flustered  but  not 
knowing  how  gracefully  to  retreat  from  her  impor- 
tunities. 

"It's  a  workshop — not  a  shop  window,"  he  said  with 
his  dry  smile. 

The  smile  misled  them  to  further  attempt.  This  time 
it  was  the  niece  who  had  pretty  eyes.  She  raised  them 
beseechingly. 

"But  that  is  just  what  makes  it  so  interesting 

"To  ladies'  curiosity?"  he  said  ironically.  "Good 
afternoon." 

"He  is  a  character,  dear  Miss  King,"  breathed  the 
eldest  lady,  with  a  politely  dissembling  air  of  enjoy- 
ment. 

Katherine  went  down  the  stairs  with  them.  When 
they  had  gone  she  rapped  viciously  upon  the  door  of 
the  first-floor  studio. 

MacNare  opened  it  a  less  than  customary  crack,  then 
seeing  her  alone,  he  flung  it  wide. 

98 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

She  marched  to  a  table  littered  with  tools  and  clay 
and  thumped  do\vn  a  cube  of  art  gum. 

"You  forgot  to  take  this  away." 

She  was  smiling  but  her  tone  held  a  peculiar  dryness. 
He  looked  at  her  silently  under  his  dark  brows. 

"You  are  a  Surly  Man !"  she  exploded,  facing  him  in 
intense  exasperation. 

"Oh!  .  .  .  Because  I  didn't  let  in  that  rabble ?" 

"Rabble!  .  .  .  Oh,  it  wouldn't  have  hurt  you,"  she 
cried,  "to  have  let  those  poor  things  had  their  'peep'  for 
half  a  minute." 

"They'd  never  have  gone." 

"I'd  have  seen  to  that  if  you'd  been  so  decent  as  to 
let  them  in." 

"Decent !"  he  echoed  irritably.  "What  earthly  good 
would  it  have  done?" 

"Everything — to  them.  It  would  have  given  them  the 
feeling  that  they  were  really  seeing  Paris  and  famous 
folk — and  that  poor  lady  would  have  carried  back  won- 
derful impressions  to  the  little  school  she  came  from." 

"Impressions !"  he  snorted.  "The  woman  was  a  fool, 
an  ignoramus " 

"Your  tongue  does  lose  itself  in  compliment." 

"Why  does  she  pretend  to  interests " 

"Dear  man,  they're  all  she  has !  She  doesn't  know 
that  she  doesn't  know  and  it's  too  late  to  unlearn  her. 
So  you  might  as  well  be  kind  for  she's  such  a  tre- 
mendously good  soul,  with  all  sorts  of  heroisms  and  sac- 
rifices in  her  narrow,  deprived  life  that  she  never  thinks 
of  as  heroisms  at  all — just  duty  to  sick  sisters  and 
grumpy  father." 

99 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"Is  it  your  idea  that  I  am  to  soften  the  mishaps  of 
life  to  deprived  ladies  who  don't  know  art  from  artificial 
by  letting  them  make  free  with  my  studio ?" 

She  shook  her  yellow  head  at  him  in  a  kind  of  despair. 
"It's  only  that  it  would  have  been  so  kind  of  you.  .  .  . 
And  even  if  you  didn't  you  might  have  been  politer  to 
them — softened  it — made  excuses." 

"I  don't  soften  things  and  I  don't  make  excuses,"  he 
returned  indignantly.  "That's  not  in  my  character. 
And  if  I  didn't  hold  my  studio  and  my  time  sacred  there 
would  come  nothing  from  them  worth  the  intrusive  cu- 
riosity of  lady  teachers  or  anyone  else." 

"I  know — but  these  were  my  friends,"  she  murmured 
with  a  shamelessly  feminine  change  of  front.  "And  if  I 
hadn't  thought  them  deserving  of  your  forbearance  I 
wouldn't  have " 

"Oh,  Lord  Harry!"  He  ran  his  fingers  through  his 
hair  with  a  gesture  of  fierce  exasperation.  "Well,  see 
here — here's  the  key  of  this  place.  I'm  goijng  out.  You 
can  bring  them  here  at  your  freedom  and  let  them 
revel  in  impressions — "  He  flung  his  arms  toward  an 
attending  circle  of  unfinished  models.  "Only  they  can't 
peep  at  that,"  he  prohibited,  indicating  the  model  for 
his  fountain  under  a  shrouding  cloth. 

"But  it  was  you  that  was  the  magnet ' 

"The  magnet — damn  !  I  beg  your  pardon — no,  I 
don't  either.  You  deserved  worse  than  that.  .  .  .  But 
if  you've  really  set  your  heart  on  pouring  that  crew  in 
here,  on  me,  why — why" — again  that  distraught  ges- 
ture through  his  rumpled  hair — "why  you  get  them 
back  here  again  and  I'll  let  them  in.  ...  Only  don't 

100 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

ask  me  to  explain  my  'revelation  of  a  Prophet,'  "  he 
snorted. 

She  met  his  look  with  a  face  all  gleams  of  laughing 
triumph.  "Now  you  are  nice!  .  .  .  But  it's  too  late 
for  you  to  suffer  for  it,  for  they  are  off  to  an  unknown 
restaurant,  and  they  are  leaving  in  a  rush  to-mor- 
row. .  .  .  Besides,  I  explained  you." 

"Explained  me?" 

She  nodded,  a  teasing  little  smile  about  her  lips.  "I 
hinted  mystery — beneath  the  words  of  truth.  I  said 
that  you  were  working  and — and  undoubtedly — there 
was  nothing  here  that  you  wanted  anyone  to  see.  .  .  . 
Your  own  words,  you  see.  And  the  dears  guessed — a 
model!" 

"A  model?"  He  looked  but  faintly  enlightened. 
Then  a  wry  grin  flickered  across  his  face. 

"You  should  have  seen  their  slant  looks  at  the  door  as 
they  passed.  .  .  .  And  they  told  me  they  quite  under- 
stood!" 

"And  felt  they  were  treading  near  to  bacchanalian 
secrets  ?"  He  chuckled  suddenly  and  Katherine  wondered 
what  made  her  so  surprised  and  then  recalled  that  it  was 
the  first  recognizable  sound  of  mirth  she  had  heard  from 
him  in  all  these  weeks  of  their  increasing  friendship.  He 
was  not  a  gloomy  man,  though  taciturn  to  strangers, 
dry  and  unsocial,  but  never,  even  with  little  Peggy,  had 
she  heard  him  laugh. 

She  was  still  thinking  about  that  and  fitting  it  into 
her  scheme  of  his  tragedy  when  he  startled  her  by  march- 
ing up  to  her,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  his  dark 
head  thrust  forward  with  an  air  of  active  belligerency. 

101 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  preach  to  me — you  have 
a  sweet  missionary  spirit  as  no  one  knows  better  than  my 
Surly  Self,"  he  said  dryly,  "but  I  have  a  few  words  of 
warning  to  say  to  you.  .  .  .  It's  all  very  'nice'  to  be 
agreeable  to  worthy  travelers  and  deprived  ladies — but 
there  are  plenty  of  other  people's  time  for  them  to 
waste.  ...  If  you  are  ever  going  to  do  anything  in  the 
world  and  bring  a  harvest  out  of  the  seed  that's  in  you, 
there's  just  one  way — do  it." 

He  drew  a  hand  out  of  his  pocket  and  shook  it  at 
her  impressively.  "Give  yourself  to  it,  body  and  soul. 
Keep  the  distractions  down  to  the  thinnest  margin  of 
recreation.  .  .  .  Save  your  strength  and  your  time  for 
your  work.  .  .  .  That's  the  one  condition  of  doing  your 
best — and  making  your  best  better." 

"And  you  think  I — fritter?"  She  meant  a  touch  of 
amusement,  but  she  was  too  impressed  by  his  force. 

"Not  much — yet,"  he  acknowledged  grimty.  "It's 
natural — that  makes  it  almost  inevitable.  .  .  .  The  un- 
natural and  amazing  thing  would  be  to  have  a  girl  of 
your  age  and  your" — he  hesitated  then  shading  his 
words  with  irony — "your  degree  of  pulchritude  conse- 
crate herself  to  serious  and  creditable  achievement.  .  .  . 
You  started  in  well  at  first.  Now  you're  letting  things 
get  hold  of  you." 

"Such  as — ?"  There  was  trepidation  behind  the 
defiant  innocence  of  her  smile.  But  he  surprised  her. 

"Such  as  that  French  popinjay — that  chap  that  came 
in  on  you  one  afternoon,  do  you  remember?" 

She  did  and  was  amazed  that  he  did. 

"And  I've  seen  you  about  with  him  constantly.  .  .  . 
102 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

That's  all  very  well  for  some  people  but  it's  a  blind  alley 
and  leads  nowhere.  .  .  .  Don't  waste  your  time  on  him. 
You  didn't  come  over  here  to  flirt  with  adolescent 
Frenchmen." 

Her  chin  went  up  with  a  swift  gesture  of  anger.  Her 
eyes  were  gray  as  agates  with  all  the  soft  and  cloudy 
blue  withdrawn. 

"As  I  happen  not  to  be  flirting " 

"Then  he  is,"  he  said  bluntly.  "Don't  tell  me.  I 
know  them.  .  .  .  They're  daft  about  la  femme.  .  .  . 
You  don't  suppose  he'd  waste  time  on  you  if  you  weren't 
young  and  pretty,  do  you?" 

His  manner  quite  removed  any  trace  of  compliment. 
Her  lips  quivered  with  wrath. 

"I  think  it's  you  who  are  daft  about  la  femme  to  take 
that  view  of  things !  Can't  you  understand  friendship, 
companionship " 

"/  can — but  he  can't.  Not  so  much  of  it.  ...  And 
you'll  be  letting  yourself  in  for  a  lot  of  time-consuming 
explanations  some  of  these  days  if  you  don't  let  a  little 
less  companionship  go  a  longer  way." 

"I  suppose  you  think  I  ought  not  to  go  anywhere," 
she  said  in  a  childishly  furious  voice,  "except  to  the 
Louvre  with  the  two  ladies  from  the  Sorbonne." 

"Oh  no — I'll  throw  in  a  few  outings  with  Peggy  and 
me,"  he  said  coolly.  "We  don't  count.  .  .  .  But  that 
young  Frenchman  thinks  he  does  or  I'm  mistaken." 

"That  you're  mistaken  is  the  kindest  thing  I  can  think 
about  you,"  she  retorted  and  felt  that  she  carried  the 
honors  of  war  from  the  room. 

One  hour  afterward  she  came  downstairs  again.  It 
103 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

was  little  Peggy  who  answered  her  knock.  Robert  was 
out  buying  strawberries  the  child  explained;  they  were 
to  dine  in  the  studio  and  Peggy  was  to  make  chocolate. 

Then,  slipping  into  French  with  her  best  manners,  the 
child  asked  if  Mademoiselle  King  would  care  to  join 
them — it  would  be  a  pleasure.  She  was  a  drolly  re- 
pressed little  thing  in  the  French  formality  of  her  school- 
mistress's phrases.  Her  emotions  and  her  childish  in- 
coherencies  were  for  her  English. 

Katherine  declined  with  responding  courtesy,  then 
stood  irresolute  a  moment,  looking  about  the  room,  a 
larger  one  than  hers,  for  here  a  partition  has  been  re- 
moved, making  one  room  of  two.  MacNare  also  rented 
the  sleeping-room  beyond,  but  Katherine  remembered 
that  Peggy's  bed  had  been  drawn  out  here  the  first  time 
she  had  entered  the  place — that  night  of  the  croup. 

Now,  but  for  the  little  table  the  child  was  setting  with 
slow  care  by  one  of  the  windows,  there  were  scant  signs 
of  domestic  possession.  The  big  room  was  barren  of 
artistic  litter;  it  had  a  clean  and  wind-swept  look.  It 
was  like  the  owner's  life  with  the  superfluous  gone,  leav- 
ing it  stripped  and  barren  of  incumbrance,  like  a  boxer 
entering  a  ring. 

By  one  of  the  windows  the  model  of  his  fountain  stood 
beneath  the  shrouding  cloth  and  one  or  two  other  cloths 
covered  certain  unfinished  studies,  while  all  about  the 
room,  ghastly  white  in  the  deepening  shadows,  were  the 
pale  creatures  of  the  sculptor's  hand.  They  were  old 
acquaintances  now  to  Katherine,  but  she  seemed  to  feel 
them  now  as  for  the  first  time — the  great  torso  study, 
straining  in  a  Sisyphus  endeavor,  a  fragment  of  an  un- 

104 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

finished  Victory,  a  charming  head  of  Peggy,  a  Greek 
runner,  a  Prometheus,  a  horseshoer,  and  a  dozen  other 
studies  of  man  and  beast. 

The  girl's  eyes  went  from  one  to  the  other,  then 
lingered  upon  the  study  for  the  Prophet.  The  im- 
pressiveness  of  the  great  marble  at  the  Salon  was  not  in 
the  model,  but  there  was  power  and  passion  even  in  the 
smaller  clay  of  the  gaunt  and  fiery  Prophet,  appeal- 
ing with  outflung  hands  and  vision-touched  lips  to  the 
multitude  who  turned  from  him  in  cynical  incredulity,  in 
ribald  mockery,  in  dull  oblivion  and  gay  pursuits.  .  .  . 

As  she  gazed  a  great  humility  of  spirit  came  upon 
her.  She  found  a  pencil  and  paper  and  wrote  upon  the 
edge  of  a  clay,  moist  table. 

DEAR  SURLY  MAN  : 

I  am  one  of  the  multitude  who  did  not  heed  the 
Prophet — and  I  am  very  much  ashamed.  .  .  . 
You  are  a  Great  Man  who  is  patient  with  all  my 
foolery  and  foolishness  and  very  good  to  take  an 
interest  in  my  poor  work.  I  am  going  to  work 
very  hard  indeed,  and  when  I  am  no  longer  young 
and  pulchritudinous  and  tempted  I  may  be  on  the 
line ! 

You  see  I  am  joking  again  but  that  is  only 
bravado.  I  am  really  very  sad  over  my  bad 
temper.  K.  K. 

She  left  the  little  note  on  his  plate  and  fled. 

And  Peggy,  devotedly  eyeing  her  Robert  father  over 
the  strawberries  wondered  why  he  pocketed  that  note  so 
carefully  and  then  took  it  out  and  tore  it  into  a  hundred 
pieces. 


CHAPTER    XI 

TO  the  good  resolutions  of  that  note  Katherine 
adhered  steadily  in  the  days  that  followed  and 
she  was  the  less  tempted  to  Avander  from  the 
Surly  Man's  counsels  of  perfection  because  Etienne  de 
Trezac  was  out  of  the  city  at  a  family  gathering  at 
some  country  chateau. 

The  Academic  was  officially  closed  for  the  summer 
vacation  but  a  substitute  held  morning  classes  for  those 
who  lingered,  and  there  were  sketching  classes  made  up 
for  afternoons  in  the  Bois  and  about  Paris.  Sometimes 
Katherine  worked  with  these ;  sometimes  she  went  by 
herself. 

Even  in  these  few  months  of  Paris  study  her  advance 
was  perceptible.  Olga  Goulebeff  commented  upon  it 
with  a  jeer  of  irony. 

"Ah,  you  will  rival  Etienne,  our  genius !  Do  you 
think  you  will  be  the  dearer  to  him  for  that?" 

Olga's  nerves  were  often  on  edge.  Louis  Arnaud  had 
left  for  the  summer  vacation.  At  first  Katherine  in- 
quired after  him  with  friendly  interest,  but  to  one  in- 
quiry if  he  had  written  lately,  Olga  had  responded  with 
a  fury  of  derision. 

106 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 


'Tou jours,  .  .  .  et  tou jours  avec  tendresse,  je  vous 


assure  I 


I" 


Katherine's  own  spirits  were  subject  to  unwonted 
moods  those  warm  June  days.  There  were  times  when 
discouragement  assailed  her;  when  she  distrusted  her 
work,  her  power,  her  future.  It  seemed  to  her  at  those 
rather  depressed  hours  that  she  was  standing  outside 
of  life,  futilely  painting  its  reflections,  while  others 
worked  in  its  real  stuff. 

It  was  the  hard  application  of  the  day  that  brought 
these  reactions  of  lassitude,  but  Dick  Conrad's  accounts 
of  house-parties  and  motoring  had  something  to  do  with 
them.  .  .  .  She  was  quite  human  enough  to  want  to 
eat  her  cake  and  have  it,  too.  .  .  .  And  the  gray  and 
yellow  studio  room  seemed  very  far  away  on  long, 
lonely  evenings,  from  the  dear  associations  of  her 
home. 

Jeffrey  Edgerton  appeared  a  person  of  many  engage- 
ments and  occupations.  He  wrote  of  a  cousin's  wed- 
ding, of  the  London  season,  of  numerous  acquaintances, 
of  visiting  officers.  His  life  was  very  far  away,  too, 
from  the  old  American  interests.  The  England  in  which 
he  lived  and  moved  and  had  his  soldierly  being  was  re- 
mote. She  told  herself  that  she  was  glad  he  did  not 
come  again. 

Sometimes — when  she  was  very,  very  tired,  and  the 
colors  were  dull  instead  of  clear  and  her  lines  were 
mediocre  and  unrevealing,  she  wondered  if  her  splendid 
dreams  would  bring  her  only  to  the  life  of  a  maiden 
art  teacher.  They  must  have  had  their  dreams,  once — 
their  human  dreams,  their  hopes  of  glory.  .  .  .  She 
8  107 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

! 

cried  dolefully  into  her  pillow  one  night  at  the  pitiful 

prospect.  .  .  .  And  even  if  she  succeeded,  if  she  became 
a  "somebody" — why,  what  would  that  really  bring  her? 
.  .  .  The  Surly  Man  was  a  somebody,  a  very  distin- 
guished somebody  and  some  day  he  would  be  famous — 
but  she  thought  him  the  most  lonely  creature  that  she 
had  ever  known. 

She  did  not  in  the  least  want  to  be  lonely  and  pitied 
or  sensible  and  matter-of-fact.  She  wanted,  with  every 
fiber  of  her  healthy,  egoistic  youth,  to  be  splendidly  and 
actively  and  happily  occupied. 

In  these  unwonted  low  spirits  she  came  to  rely  more 
and  more  upon  the  companionship  of  Robert  MacNare. 
Not  that  she  said  a  word  to  him  of  her  occasionally 
painful  forebodings,  but  it  was  a  comfort  for  her  to  be 
with  someone  as  blunt  and  frank  and  uncompromising 
in  his  relation  to  the  facts  of  life.  She  felt  that  she 
would  learn  truth  from  him  if  ever  she  asked  it.  She  had 
odd  fluctuations  in  her  attitude  to  him.  Sometimes, 
especially  in  the  presence  of  his  work,  she  felt  queerly 
young  and  untried  and  aspiring  in  comparison  with 
the  greatness  of  his  genius,  and  her  manner  was  hedged 
with  a  fleet,  shy  diffidence  of  her  discipleship,  but  gen- 
erally she  was  too  merry  of  speech  and  too  saucy  for 
reverence,  and  too  responsive  to  the  pity  that  he  invol- 
untarily waked  in  her  to  remember  that  he  was  a  great 
man. 

Their  intercourse  was  peculiarly  in  the  present  tense. 
Katherine,  to  be  sure,  often  spoke  of  her  home,  her 
mother  and  father  and  brothers,  but  MacNare's  utter 
silence  upon  his  own  past  environment  made  her  sensi- 

108 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

live  to  constraint.  His  past  was  never  touched  upon 
between  them  until  one  night  that  she  never  forgot. 

They  had  been  speaking  of  Peggy.  He  had  come  up, 
one  evening,  to  carry  her  away  from  one  of  her  frequent 
visits  to  Katherine,  and  little  Peg  had  refused  to  go 
until  she  had  finished  putting  all  the  paper  dolls  to  bed 
between  the  pages  of  the  book  they  lived  in — a  lengthy 
and  monotonous  rite.  Curled  up  on  Katherine's  couch 
she  was  sleepily  murmuring,  "Now  I  wash  'is  one's  face 
and  now  I  wash  'at  one's  face  and  now  I  comb  'is  one's 
hair  and  now  I  comb — "  ad  infmitum  after  the  manner 
of  the  repetitious  Scribes  and  Pharisees. 

In  moments  of  intense  happiness  she  spoke  an  odd 
baby  jargon  of  her  own;  in  dull,  everyday  affairs  she 
was  a  stolid  and  reserved  little  soul. 

MacNare,  at  Katherine's  request,  had  drawn  out  his 
pipe,  and  was  smoking  while  he  waited,  and  Katherine 
finished  a  letter  to  her  mother,  thinking  with  a  wave  of 
homesickness  how  many  miles  it  must  travel  before  it 
would  be  brought  up  the  steps  of  that  old  white  porch 
into  the  eager  hands  awaiting  it,  and  how,  when  her 
father  came  home  from  classes  her  mother  would  greet 
him  with,  "I've  heard  from  Katherine  to-day,"  and  little 
Don  would  call  out  impatiently,  "When's  she  coming 
home?  When's  she  coming  home?" 

From  such  faraway  thoughts  as  these  she  roused  her- 
self to  try  and  banish  the  odd,  worried  frown  that  was 
knitting  MacNare's  black  brows  together.  Peggy  was 
the  best  topic  she  knew  to  bait  his  speech,  but  her  low- 
toned  mention  of  the  child  served  to  deepen  the  frown. 

Yes,  Miss  Lowe,  the  new  American  governess  of 
109 


Katherine's  discovery,  was  all  right,  MacNare  admitted 
briefly.  Peg  liked  her;  the  child  was  certainly  better 
for  the  greater  outdoor  freedom. 

"And  happier,  too,"  suggested  Katherine. 

MacNare  cast  a  glance  at  his  little  daughter  whose 
oblivious  head  was  sinking  sleepily  lower  and  lower. 
Her  tousled  black  curls  half  hid  her  face,  but  one  round 
dimpled  arm  was  outflung  over  her  dolls,  and  two  fat 
knees  and  plump  little  legs  were  displayed  between  the 
short  socks  and  her  rumpled  white  frock.  The  picture 
was  winning  enough  to  lighten  any  parent's  look  of 
care,  but  the  man's  dark  gaze  did  not  brighten. 

"I  can  do  for  her  now  all  right,"  he  muttered,  as  if 
to  himself,  "but  by  and  by  .  .  ." 

By  and  by  little  Peggy  with  her  great  eyes  and  curls 
would  be  a  handful  for  any  man,  most  of  all  for  a 
grimly  unsocial  artist  who  had  cut  the  ordinary  ties  of 
human  associations. 

Katherine's  glance  had  lingered  on  his  set  face,  a  veil 
of  quick,  human  sympathy  softening  the  bright  direct- 
ness of  her  eyes. 

"It's  hard,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

After  a  moment  MacNare  turned  his  head  deliberately 
and  looked  at  her.  "What's  hard?"  he  said  in  a  chal- 
lenging way.  "For  her?  For  me?" 

"For  you  both — to  be  so  alone,"  slipped  confusedly 
from  her. 

He  drew  a  long  breath  upon  his  pipe  and  sent  a 
cloud  of  blue  smoke  into  the  air.  "It  would  be  a  great 
deal  harder  if  we  weren't  alone,"  he  said  with  a  grim 
emphasis  of  satisfaction. 

110 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

A  sharp  wonder  struck  her. 

In  the  pause  Peggy's  faint  croon  came  across  the 
room  to  them.  "Now  I  put  'is  one  here — now  I  put  'at 
one  here " 

MacNare  lowered  his  voice  when  he  spoke  again.  It 
was  held  taut  as  a  whipcord  against  all  trace  of  feeling 
and  the  words  came  like  a  crack. 

"Peggy's  mother  is  not  dead." 

He  looked  straight  at  Katherine  and  she  could  feel 
the  visible  rush  of  her  confusion  to  her  unguarded  face. 
She  could  not  meet  his  eyes ;  there  seemed  something 
sardonic  and  defiant  in  their  depths,  and  she  turned  her 
head  away,  a  wave  of  bright  color  in  her  cheeks. 

"Oh !"  was  all  that  she  could  find  to  offer.  Limply 
she  added,  trying  to  sound  matter-of-fact,  "I  always 
supposed " 

"I  generally  let  people  suppose."  His  tone  was 
grating.  He  went  on,  not  looking  at  her  now,  "I  prefer 
to  be  frank  with  you.  .  .  .  We  parted  five  years  ago." 

Katherine's  eyes  turned  unconsciously  to  the  child. 
Peggy's  head  had  sunk  to  the  outflung  arm  and  from 
her  parted  lips  came  the  deep,  even  breathing  of  sleep. 
That  pause  grew  heavy.  It  seemed  necessary  to  Kath- 
erine to  say  something,  but  everything  that  occurred 
to  her  she  rejected  as  a  stock  formula  of  inadequacy. 

Hesitantly  at  last  she  murmured,  "Of  course  when 
people  aren't  happy — it's  better  to  separate " 

"I'm  divorced,"  said  MacNare  abruptly. 

She  said  nothing. 

He  added,  "I  don't  want  any  false  pretenses.  Truth 
isn't  always  simple  but — here  it  is.  ...  I  made  a  thor- 

111 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

ough  young  fool  of  myself.  I  married  at  twenty-three. 
That's  a  century  ago — I'm  thirty-two  now.  .  .  .  We 
lived  together  three  years.  Then  Peg  was  born.  Be- 
fore she  was  a  year  old  I  got  my  divorce.  I  took  her  to 
New  York — then  came  here.  We've  been  here  nearly 
four  years." 

There  seemed  nothing  in  the  world  to  say  to  that 
bald  narrative.  Phrases  of  it  went  snapping  through 
the  girl's  head — A  thorough  young  fool — /  got  my 
divorce.  .  .  .  Her  sentimental  notions  of  the  man's 
tragedy  went  crashing.  .  .  .  From  the  chaos  loomed 
dimmer  and  grimmer  specters,  dark  outlines  she  could 
not  apprehend.  .  .  . 

She  thought,  confusedly,  that  the  Surly  Man  would 
probably  be  hard  on  a  woman — especially  a  woman  who 
had  wronged  him.  .  .  .  She  looked  at  the  child  over 
whose  unconscious  head  the  story  had  been  told  and 
felt  a  pang  of  pity  for  the  mother  who  had  lost  her. 

From  that  pity  sprang  the  unconsidered  question, 
"Does  her — mother — never  see  her?" 

"Never." 

He  went  on,  biting  off  his  words,  "The  one  desire  of 
my  life  is  that  her  mother  will  never  see  her  and  that 
Peggy  will  never  see  her  mother.  And — if  I  live — it's 
safe  enough  to  prophesy.  .  .  .  She,"  there  was  an  odd, 
indescribably  shading  of  the  word,  "she  has  married 
again." 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Katherine,  from  a  confusion  of  feel- 
ing. 

A  wry,  mirthless  grin  flickered  over  a  corner  of  that 
young-old  mouth. 

112 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"So  am  I." 

Determinedly  he  reapplied  himself  to  his  pipe.  He 
had  said  all  that  he  meant  to  say.  Katherine  could  but 
faintly  guess  what  it  had  cost  him,  yet  now  that  it  was 
done  he  felt  a  distinct  relief. 

As  he  sat  there  in  the  gathering  dusk,  silently  smok- 
ing, he  seemed  to  Katherine's  pitying  fancy  to  be  some 
grim  and  forceful  projection  from  the  dark  background 
that  his  words  had  painted  for  her.  She  thought  she  un- 
derstood how  dark  it  had  been.  .  .  .  She  thought  it  the 
old  three-cornered  tragedy,  and  wondered  concerning 
that  unknown  woman  over  whom  he  had  been  such  a 
"thorough  young  fool,"  that  woman  who  had  taken  his 
youth  and  then  flung  it  away.  .  .  .  She  wondered — in- 
curable sentimentalist! — if  he  still  "loved"  her.  She 
thought  it  quite  in  keeping  with  his  character  that  he 
should  love  and  not  forgive.  .  .  .  Then  a  consuming 
pity  for  him  rose  in  her,  a  helpless  sorrow  for  the  bru- 
talities of  life. 

And  suddenly  she  felt  herself  a  child,  ignorant  of 
passion,  untried  and  unstirred  by  the  deep  terrible  cur- 
rents that  sweep  men  and  women  to  their  fates. 

Yet  when  he  rose  to  go,  without  a  further  word,  lift- 
ing Peggy  gently  and  easily  in  his  strong  arms,  she  felt 
herself  at  the  same  time  a  very  mother  to  him,  longing 
to  sooth,  to  assuage.  .  .  .  But  to  heal — that,  she  knew, 
was  beyond  such  simple  gifts  as  her  friendship  could 
bring  to  him. 

"Good  night,"  was  all  the  word  she  had  for  him  but 
her  eyes  spoke  for  her. 


CHAPTER    XII 

IT  was  some  two  weeks  later  upon  a  Saturday 
morning  that  Madame  Bonnet  unburdened  herself 
of  a  few  observations.  She  had  eyes  in  her  head, 
that  shrewd  madame,  for  other  things  than  the  studio 
which  she  was  officiously  setting  to  rights  beneath  Mac- 
Nare's  protesting  nose.  He  always  remained  on  guard 
to  defend  his  possessions  from  this  invasion  of  feminine 
cleanliness. 

It  was  late  June  and  warm  and  the  north  windows 
were  wide  to  lure  a  most  capricious  breeze.  The  broad 
doors  upon  the  side  street  had  been  opened,  too,  to  ad- 
mit the  great  block  of  marble  for  MacNare's  fountain, 
which  was  now  in  the  middle  of  the  studio,  mantled  in 
heavy  white  cloths.  MacNare  was  still  struggling  with 
the  bolts  and  bars  of  the  cumbersome  doors,  used  only 
for  his  statues,  and  madame  glanced  once  or  twice  ten- 
tatively at  his  back  before  she  commenced  her  conver- 
sation. 

"A  wonderful  day,"  she  observed,  her  damp  cloth 
vigorous  upon  a  mantle  top.  "Not  a  day  in  which  to 
be  in  Paris." 

"I  thought  you  were  a  good  Parisian."  MacNare 
114 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

drove  the  last  bolt  home  and  grunted  with  satisfaction. 
Then  he  turned  to  eye  her  onslaught  upon  his  mantle 
with  disapprobation. 

"And  so  I  am  a  good  Parisian.  .  .  .  But  I  was  also 
a  good  country  girl  before  I  married  Bonnet — God  rest 
his  soul ! — and  I  have  not  forgotten  how  soft  the  air 
is  at  Les  Buissons  nor  how  the  little  stream  runs  through 
the  meadow  with  the  ducks  floating  on  it.  ...  My 
son's  Marie  has  hatched  out  some  fine  duck's  eggs," 
madame  continued  with  a  broad  disregard  of  distinc- 
tions. "Now  there  are  fat  little  ducklings  ready  for 
the  oven.  Monsieur  must  go  down  and  taste  them." 

"Without  a  doubt,"  MacNare  assented  vaguely,  be- 
ginning to  sort  his  motley  pipes  upon  a  table  next  in 

the  line  of  attack. 
t 

"And  never  will  there  be  a  better  time  than  now!" 
madame  enthusiastically  proclaimed.  "Why  not  this 
very  day,  monsieur?  Marie  does  not  need  warning. 
Or  monsieur  can  sleep  at  the  inn  and  come  to  Marie's 
for  dinner " 

"I  thought  that  Marie " 

"That  is  not  for  three  months.  My  son  did  not  marry 
a  weakling,"  said  madame  scornfully.  "Marie  would 
be  glad  of  a  lodger.  And  the  country  air  would  benefit 
monsieur.  He  has  not  the  look  of  one  who  has  the 
good  appetite." 

"Oh,  tut-tut-tut!  What  should  I  do  down  in  the 
country?"  returned  the  sculptor  irritably.  "Madame 
understands  that  I  do  not  paint  pictures  of  fields  in 
bloom  nor  make  models  of  domestic  hens." 

"Monsieur  could  take  a  walk  with  mademoiselle." 
115 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"Eh?"  MacNare  stared  sharply  at  the  bland  coun- 
tenance of  his  landlady.  "What  mademoiselle?" 

"The  mademoiselle  la-dessus."  Madame  rolled  her 
eyes  to  the  ceiling,  her  hands  being  occupied  with  the 
table  top.  "She  went  this  morning.  She  had  spoken 
of  going  before,  and  yesterday,  seeing  what  weather  it 
is,  she  came  to  me  and  asked  me  to  telegraph  Marie. 
She  is  to  make  pictures  there  for  a  week." 

"And  you  propose  that  I  should  go  this  afternoon !" 
MacNare  gave  a  hoot  of  a  laugh.  "Fie,  madame,  at 
your  age !" 

But  he  did  not  meet  the  look  in  her  eyes.  He  began 
to  fill  the  pipe  nearest  his  hand,  jamming  the  tobacco 
down  hurriedly  with  those  strong,  blunt,  marvelously 
sensitive  fingers  of  his. 

Madame  shrugged  and  sent  her  cloth  vigorously 
across  the  table,  surveying  its  blackened  folds  with 
proper  expressiveness. 

"As  to  my  age,  it  is  one  of  good  sense  which  monsieur 
apparently  has  not  yet  reached,"  she  rejoined  smartly, 
in  the  habitual  frankness  of  years  of  association.  "For 
monsieur  to  turn  his  back  upon  a  mademoiselle  with 
cheeks  like  apples  and  a  heart  of  gold !" 

"I  turn  my  back !"  said  the  young  man  gruffly. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  have  seen !  For  a  time  after  the  little 
one's  illness  affairs  were  pleasant.  Then  it  was,  'Ma- 
demoiselle, come  to  the  Bois  this  Sunday  with  us,'  and 
'Mademoiselle,  take  a  walk'  .  .  .  but  of  late  it  is  as  if 
mademoiselle  were  Cain.  When  monsieur  hears  her  com- 
ing he  turns  back  into  his  room.  If  mademoiselle  knocks 
when  the  little  one  is  not  here  he  does  not  answer — Oh, 

116 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

I  have  heard !  Ungrateful !  Stupid !"  madame  hurled, 
her  face  pink  with  indignation.  "It  is  not  as  if  mon- 
sieur were  a  graybeard  with  a  wooden  leg  that  he  could 
not  lift  his  eyes  to  a  young  girl  who  knows  no  better 
than  to  think  the  good  God  sent  her  into  the  world  to 
paint  worthless  women !" 

MacNare  had  turned  his  back  squarely  upon  madame. 
A  dull,  dark  red  was  mounting  higher  and  higher  in 
his  face,  crimsoning  the  roots  of  his  hair.  It  was  not 
pleasant  to  a  man  of  his  temperament  to  find  the  feeling 
which  he  had  refused  to  admit  to  the  light  of  his  own 
recognition  being  wantonly  twirled,  like  an  impaled  but- 
terfly, upon  madame's  observation. 

And  yet  her  last  words  struck  a  queer,  forbidden 
pleasure  into  him  which  he  denied. 

He  took  his  big  chair  and  planted  himself  in  it, 
eyeing  her  determinedly  with  an  air  of  outfacing  the 
enemy,  and  remarked  in  a  rallying  tone,  "Do  I  look  to 
you>  then,  a  lover?" 

She  gave  him  the  fleetest  of  glances,  but  so  pointed 
with  a  shrewd  feminine  penetration  that  he  felt  his 
bravado  disposed  of  on  the  instant.  But  he  did  not 
abandon  his  note  of  jocular  scorn. 

"And  this  advice  from  you,  you  who  know  so  much 
of  me !  Why,  I  thought  that  you  were  a  good  Catholic 
and  believed  that  once  married,  always  married  to  the 
death !" 

"Monsieur  is  not  a  Catholic." 

"Do  you  then  wish  me  in  deadly  sin?" 

Madame  came  a  little  closer,  her  face  a  study.  "Oh, 
as  to  being  a  good  Catholic,"  she  observed,  with  frank- 

117 


T-HE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

ness,  yet  also  with  embarrassment,  "why  so  I  hope  I 
am.  I  hold  with  religion.  It  is  necessary  for  the 
people.  How  else  should  one  be  baptized  and  married 
and  laid  in  the  ground?  And  the  Church  has  its  own 
rules — the  Church  is  very  wise.  .  .  .  Divorce  is  not 
seemly.  It  is  hard  enough,  God  knows,  to  get  one  good 
husband  for  a  girl  nowadays — there  are  not  many 
young  men  like  my  Jean ! — without  having  to  get  her 
a  second.  And  if  the  first  swallowed  all  the  dowry 
what  would  there  be  for  the  second?  And  if  a  man 
could  rid  himself  of  a  wife  every  time  that  the  wind 
turned  north — no,  no,  no !" 

She  shook  her  head  vigorously.  "But  as  for  sucking 
in  all  that  a  priest  says  like  mother's  milk — why,  I  will 
tell  monsieur.  .  .  .  When  I  was  quite  a  girl,  my  father 
— God  rest  his  soul!" — piously  madame  crossed  herself 
— "my  father  took  me  to  walk  in  the  churchyard  where 
we  had  laid  a  bead  wreath  upon  the  grave  of  a  relation. 
'Look  you,  Clotilde,'  he  said  to  me  in  confidence,  'you 
are  my  child;  you  are  not  an  ordinary  fool  of  a  girl. 
As  to  mass  and  confession  and  the  rest,  it  is  the  re- 
spectable thing,  and  will  keep  you  a  good  girl,  and  there 
is  nothing  else  for  the  people.  But  do  not  be  deceived. 
Do  not  pay  the  priest  instead  of  the  doctor,  nor  waste 
yourself  in  candles  for  purgatory.  When  you  are  dead 
you  go  back  into  the  earth,  and  it  is  the  fresh  seeds 
that  rise  from  the  earth  in  the  spring,  and  not  the  fallen 
petals.  If  you  would  live  again  you  live  in  the  memory 
of  just  deeds  and  loving  kindnesses!' ' 

She  sighed  deeply.  "He  was  a  shrewd  man,  my 
father,  and  the  priest  had  great  respect  for  him. 

118 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

'When  you  are  once  dead,'  he  said  that  day,  and  never 
again  did  he  open  his  mouth  to  me  about  it,  'you  are 
dead  a  long  time,  and  it  is  well  to  have  lived  while  you 
live.'  And  so  I  say  to  you,  monsieur,  that  when  once 
you  are  dead  you  are  dead,  and  it  is  well  to  live  while 
you  are  young  and  not  to  sit  in  a  room  with  a  block 
of  marble  as  if  you  were  carving  your  own  monument. 
...  It  was  not  worth  the  time  of  the  good  God  to 
have  blown  the  breath  of  life  into  your  bones  if  you 
make  no  more  use  of  it  than  this !" 

Madame  ceased  to  talk  and  applied  herself  to  another 
side  of  the  room. 

MacNare's  pipe  had  gone  out.  A  little  spark  from 
its  bowl  was  charring  an  undiscovered  spot  upon  his  cuff . 
From  the  open  window  the  sounds  of  the  summer  streets 
filled  the  room  but  did  not  penetrate  his  mood. 

He  had  thought  himself  done  with  women  forever. 
Certainly  one  of  them  had  shown  him  everything  that 
was  weakest  and  basest  in  the  feminine  heart.  It  was 
not  that  she  had  loved  another.  He  was  a  man  who 
could  have  risen  above  his  own  hurt  and  loss  to  under- 
standing and  compassion  for  another's  tragedy  and 
pain,  but  the  iron  that  had  entered  his  soul  had  been 
poisoned  with  a  far  more  venomous  barb. 

The  woman  that  he  had  married,  in  the  first  flush 
of  a  boy's  infatuation  for  a  beautiful  face,  had  been  a 
trifler  as  light  as  air,  ignorant  of  worth  or  honor  or 
truth,  greedy  for  every  cheap  excitement,  every  easy 
praise  or  moment's  passion  that  her  beauty  snared. 
She  had  been  wild  before  she  came  to  MacNare's  little 
city,  and  met  him,  and  she  did  not  stay  long  in  the 

119 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

confines  of  that  position  and  society  which  pleased  her 
like  a  toy  in  the  first  months  of  their  marriage.  She 
was  the  talk  of  the  little  town,  the  occasion  for  many 
knowing  winks  and  nods  among  the  traveling  men,  be- 
fore MacNare  had  his  first  hint  of  the  truth,  before  he 
knew  what  her  mysterious  visits  to  "friends  in  the  city" 
meant. 

That  was  when  Peggy  was  coming.  But  the  child 
was  his  own.  The  very  angle  of  her  stubborn  tiny  baby 
jaw  told  him  that.  And  the  mother  promised — what 
facile  tears  she  wept,  what  hysterics,  what  appeals ! 
And  then — there  was  another  traveling  man,  and  Mac- 
Nare took  his  baby  and  got  a  divorce. 

It  was  the  cheapness  of  it  that  was  salt  in  his  wounds, 
the  galling,  futile,  sordid  cheapness.  To  have  given  his 
heart  to  such  slack  and  tawdry  hands !  .  .  .  Well,  she 
was  married,  to  the  last  traveling  man,  and  being  of 
her  fiber,  it  might  be  that  he  could  hold  her  as  he  wished. 
For  himself  the  marriage  meant  relief  and  security. 
He  thought  of  her  marriage  with  detachment,  but  the 
image  of  her  brought  always  that  sick  nausea  of  mem- 
ory. That  once  he  had  kissed  her  ropes  of  gold-brown 
hair,  her  rose-pink  lips !  A  fool's  passion !  How  he 
had  grown  to  loathe  her  big  eyes,  with  their  trick  of 
watching  him  out  of  their  corners,  her  moist,  red,  al- 
ways love-seeking  lips. 

Well,  it  had  been  a  dose  of  the  sex  to  last  him  a  life- 
time. But  he  had  ignored  his  own  youth.  He  had 
ignored  the  tremendous  springs  of  life.  .  .  .  And  then, 
when  he  had  found  himself  turning  to  that  girl  from 
the  States,  with  her  clear  true  eyes,  her  innocent  friend- 

120 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

ship,  her  merry  youth,  how  he  had  snatched  himself 
back  as  if  from  the  brink  of  the  most  disastrous  folly! 

His  recoil  was  instinctive;  it  was  the  burnt  flesh's 
memory  of  the  fire.  He  had  no  desire  to  suffer  again, 
no  intention  of  playing  the  fool  to  a  commendable,  but 
hopeless  passion.  He  shrank  from  even  the  sound  of 
Katherine's  light  feet  on  the  stairs.  Sometimes  he  left 
his  studio  rather  than  listen  to  her  quick  footsteps  over- 
head, or  the  soft  soprano  of  her  singing.  He  could 
see  her  too  clearly  there,  the  light  on  her  yellow  head, 
her  gray  eyes  clear  and  shining,  her  lips  just  touched 
with  that  teasing  little  smile.  .  .  . 

That  night  he  had  told  her  of  his  marriage  he  had 
not  owned  to  himself  what  motives  prompted  him  to 
open  the  past  to  her.  .  .  .  But  the  hours  that  followed 
had  been  merciless  in  their  revelations.  And  he  had 
avoided  her  with  almost  resentful  anger  because  she 
had  the  power  to  make  him  feel.  .  .  . 

And  as  he  sat  there  drawing  at  his  lifeless  pipe,  the 
deadening  years  slipped  suddenly  from  him.  He  ceased 
to  feel  a  hundred  and  thirty-two.  .  .  .  He  thought  of 
Les  Buissons  and  the  yellow  of  the  grain  in  the  fields 
that  was  like  the  yellow  of  Katherine's  hair,  and  the 
blue  of  the  little  stream  with  the  ducklings  floating  on 
its  placid  surface.  He  thought  of  the  straight,  white 
road  that  led  to  it,  with  the  straight,  green  trees  on  each 
side,  and  he  remembered  a  little  hill,  just  beyond  the 
farm  .  .  .  and  the  way  that  the  country  faded  at  twi- 
light in  the  silver  distance. 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  stretching  his  strong  arms,  and 
feeling  the  sense  of  power  and  vigor  in  his  muscles. 

121 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"If  I  should  go  for  the  Sabbath,"  he  remarked,  en- 
deavoring to  infuse  an  air  of  gruffness  into  his  voice, 
*'it  would  be  to  escape  thy  foolish  tongue.  Can  you 
have  the  little  one  ready  by  the  morning  train?" 

He  would  have  liked  to  go  that  evening  but  he  con- 
sidered the  delay  a  last  screen  to  his  pride. 

"For  the  morning  train,"  assented  madame.  Being 
a  wise  woman  she  gave  no  sign  of  undue  triumph. 
"Marie's  little  Jeanne  will  be  glad  to  see  her.  They 
will  have  a  fine  time  together  in  the  fields.  And  she 
will  find  the  little  Thomas  walking." 

MacNare  grunted,  and  became  suddenly  aware  that 
the  pipe  in  his  mouth  was  cold. 

"And  for  monsieur,"  continued  madame  evenly,  with  a 
scarcely  perceptible  glance  in  his  direction,  "something 
in  the  nature  of  a  more  suitable  costume  for  the  coun- 
try— yes?  Lighter  for  comfort  and  convenience.  And 
if  I  should  venture  another  suggestion  it  is  that  mon- 
sieur's cravats  may  well  go  now  to  tie  his  parcels  and 
a  new  one,  of  perhaps,  a  blue,  not  a  black,  would  be  an 
acceptable  reinforcement  of  his  modishness !" 

"Imbecile!"  said  MacNare  with  a  scornful  laugh. 
And  he  aired  a  new  black  cravat  with  the  gray  suit 
which  he  self-consciously  wore  home  that  afternoon. 
But  there  was  a  blue  cravat  in  his  pocket. 


CHAPTER  XHI 

ALONG,  straight  white  road  led  to  Les  Buissons, 
shaded  with  tall  trees,  between  whose  sturdy 
trunks  were  glimpses  of  rich  rolling  fields  and 
lovely  woods.  It  was  a  pretentious  road,  but  Les  Buis- 
sons was  not  pretentious ;  it  was  an  old  gray-stoned 
place  that  seemed  to  have  grown  very  cozily  and  com- 
pactly upon  the  bosom  of  the  luxuriant  countryside. 
Even  the  spires  of  the  weathered  church  did  not  rise 
very  high  in  their  modest  aspirations,  but  they  were 
pleasant  spires  and  not  above  a  sense  of  companionable- 
ness. 

The  church  was  at  one  side  of  the  square  into  which 
the  single  street  of  the  village  led  from  the  white  high- 
way, where  one  descended  from  the  train  of  infinite  ac- 
commodation, and  on  the  other  sides  were  a  town  hall 
and  a  row  of  substantial  little  shops  and  an  old  inn  and 
a  new  inn  where  "Garage"  and  "Petrol"  displayed  on 
commanding  signs  told  of  the  inspiring  frequence  of 
motorists. 

But  it  was  not  the  shops  and  the  inns  that  made  Les 
Buissons ;  it  was  the  little  farms,  those  small,  independ- 
ent holdings  that  are  the  pride  and  glory  of  the  French 
»  123 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

tiller  of  the  soil,  and  the  backbone  of  thrifty  France. 
Their  red  roofs  were  dotted  all  about  the  countryside, 
and  the  carefully  tilled  fields  were  squared  off  like  check- 
erboards in  the  varying  greens  and  golds.  A  little 
stream  wandered  fitfully  about  the  edges  of  the  village ; 
at  one  place  there  was  a  mill,  at  another  the  flat  stones 
where  the  women  washed  their  clothes  ;  and  some  distance 
away  was  the  pool  where  the  sheep  were  washed  before 
the  shearing. 

The  farm  of  Jean  Bonnet — it  was  madame's  farm,  too, 
but  having  become  addicted  to  the  city  in  her  husband's 
lifetime  she  still  clung  to  Paris  through  her  working 
days — was  some  distance  beyond  the  village  on  the 
banks  of  this  little  stream,  and  not  far  from  the  straight 
highway.  It  was  so  trim  and  fresh-looking  a  little  farm, 
so  bright  of  color  with  its  red  tiles  and  its  white-washed 
buildings,  so  clean  with  its  scrubbed  door  stones  and 
bright  window-panes  that  its  age  was  not  even  sug- 
gested until  you  passed  the  sunken  door  stones,  under 
the  worn  lintel,  into  the  wide,  oak-paneled  room. 

Here  the  years  had  turned  the  oak  to  blackness  save 
for  the  curious  squares  upon  the  wall  opposite  the  case- 
ment window  where  the  sunlight  had  bleached  the  wood 
to  ivory  pallor  and  one  end  of  the  long  room  had  re- 
ceived additional  darkening  from  the  smoke  of  the  great 
oven.  Shining  brasses  and  coppers  gleamed  about  the 
oven,  and  old  pottery  ware  added  its  charm  of  color  to 
the  shelves.  It  was  ware  of  whose  worth  Marie  Bonnet 
was  proudly  acquainted  and  to  the  occasional  tourists, 
offering  a  franc  or  so  for  an  odd  piece  which  they 
averred  had  "happened  to  catch  their  fancy"  she  would 

124 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

composedly  remark,  "But  that  is  the  pottery  of  the 
Vosges.  See,  madame,  this  is  the  mark  of  authenticity. 
It  is  not  for  two  francs  that  one  disposes  of  such." 

Many  of  these  pieces  dated  from  the  old  times  when 
there  had  been  a  grand  seigneur  in  the  chateau  beyond 
the  woods,  not  two  tenant  Americans,  and  the  farm  had 
been  one  of  his  possessions.  It  had  been  given  to  one  of 
Madame  Bonnet's  ancestors  for  signal  service  in  the 
chase,  and  had  remained  in  her  family  through  all  the 
years.  Little  by  little,  self-denial  had  added  to  its  tiny 
fields  until  it  was  indeed  a  farm  of  which  to  be  proud. 

Marie  Bonnet  met  MacNare  and  Peggy  at  the  door. 
He  and  his  little  girl  had  lodged  with  her  several  times, 
and  she  welcomed  them  now  with  a  flow  of  hospitable  re- 
gret that  he  had  chosen  to  stop  at  the  inn.  It  was  true 
that  the  mademoiselle  had  the  best  room,  overhead,  but 
it  was  not  as  if  there  were  not  other  places  where  he 
could  be  made  comfortable.  Did  monsieur  remember  the 
time,  in  hot  midsummer,  when  he  had  elected  to  sleep  out 
on  the  hay,  at  the  Inn  of  the  Silver  Moon? 

And  the  little  one !  How  glad  she  was  that  she  had 
come !  The  child  would  be  the  better  for  country  milk. 
The  cow  was  giving  splendidly  now — there  was  a  new 
calf,  yes,  and  new  pigs.  Little  Marguerite  should  be- 
hold them. 

Quickly  the  woman  busied  herself  in  filling  a  blue  bowl 
•with  yellow  cream,  and  breaking  off  an  end  of  a  long 
loaf  for  the  little  girl  who  stood  clinging  to  her  young 
father's  hands,  staring  about  at  the  half-remembered 
room  with  dark,  eager  eyes. 

MacNare  was  fidgeting  like  a  boy  in  school.  He  had 
125 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

been  on  a  holiday  ever  since  he  and  Peggy  had  taken  the 
train  early  that  Sunday  morning,  a  holiday  from  his 
wonted  self.  He  had  yielded  to  the  lure  that  was  draw- 
ing him,  and  he  felt  young  again,  elated  with  the  old 
sense  of  being  ready  for  life,  and  equal  to  it.  ... 

He  drew  a  deep  breath  of  the  good  country  air  and 
the  faint  flush  of  the  sun  was  already  coloring  his  pale 
skin.  Marie,  good  woman,  her  mind  running  ahead  to 
this  addition  to  the  midday  meal  and  selecting  the  extra 
duckling  to  be  dispatched,  was  not  too  occupied  to  note 
sympathetically  that  the  monsieur  was  like  a  boy,  and 
that  a  blue  cravat  became  him. 

She  moved  to  call  her  husband  and  the  two  children 
but  MacNare  was  already  out  the  door  again.  With 
betraying  eagerness  under  his  assumption  of  ease  he 
asked  Marie  where  the  mademoiselle  was  now.  Out 
painting? 

"Down  the  long  road — to  the  lull  beyond,"  Marie 
answered  gesturing.  "There  is  a  view " 

"Let  the  little  one  stay  here,"  said  MacNare  brusque- 
ly, and  vanished. 

The  straight  white  road  was  hot  and  dusty,  but  on 
the  edge  of  it,  beneath  the  shade  of  the  trees,  there  was 
a  narrow  path  worn  by  generations  of  feet,  bare  or 
saboted,  little  active  feet  bringing  home  the  geese  or 
cows.  Here  MacNare  tramped  along,  not  in  undue 
haste,  savoring  the  day  and  his  own  mood. 

The  sky  was  very  blue  and  filled  with  soft  little  clouds, 
floating  slowly.  Their  shadows  fell  lightly  as  a  bird's 
wing  on  the  fields  that  the  Sabbath  had  emptied  of  the 
busy  workers.  The  rich  smell  of  the  fertile  land  came  to 

126 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

him  and  the  fresh  scent  of  growing  things.  It  was  still 
June  but  there  was  the  breath  of  July's  luxuriance  in 
the  air,  the  warm  forerunner  of  harvest.  The  broad 
earth  was  sunning  herself  in  happy  anticipation.  .  .  . 
Something  of  that  same  warmth  was  coursing  through 
the  man's  veins.  The  happiness  of  the  fertile  earth  com- 
municated itself  to  him. 

He  had  been  a  fool,  he  thought,  to  let  one  weak  woman 
darken  the  face  of  this  earth  for  him,  and  sour  the  taste 
of  life  to  his  tongue.  .  .  .  She  had  distorted  love  to 
him,  like  a  bleared  looking-glass,  tainting  and  falsifying. 
Now  he  could  think  of  her,  with  hard  justice,  but  not 
with  bitterness.  He  did  not  even  regret  that  it  had  been, 
for  it  had  given  him  Peggy,  the  child  of  his  lonely 
heart — and  it  had  given  him,  too  a  measure  of  deeper 
understanding  for  this  other  woman,  this  girl  who  had 
come  so  swiftly  into  his  life. 

If  he  had  never  known  un faith  and  tinsel  lures  and 
shameful  calculation  how  could  he  have  known  the  beauty 
of  such  simply  sincerity  as  Katherine's,  such  innocent 
gayetyand  brave  friendliness?  He  thought  ofKatherine 
with  rare  tenderness  as  he  went  on,  not  thinking  of  what 
he  should  say  to  her,  not  sure  that  he  should  say  any- 
thing at  all  as  yet,  but  only  dwelling  upon  her  image  and 
glad  to  be  going  to  her — conscious  with  all  his  faculties 
that  he  was  going  to  her.  She  had  surprised  his  nature 
and  filled  it  with  her  own  sunny  youth.  .  .  .  He  thought 
of  her  young  friendliness  to  him,  her  ready  trust,  her 
saucy  humor.  He  thought  of  the  bright  hair  like  daffo- 
dil-gold, and  the  fine  sweep  of  it  over  her  close-set  ears ; 
he  thought  of  the  lovely  carriage  of  her  head,  its  light 

127 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

poise  upon  her  slender  neck,  and  the  slim,  strong  lines 
of  her  young  and  buoyant  body.  She  was  the  embodi- 
ment of  springtime  to  him,  of  youth,  clean,  strong,  light- 
hearted  youth,  innocent,  tender,  audacious. 

With  a  deepening  of  his  reverence  he  felt  that  it  was 
perhaps  well  that  he  had  suffered  for  now  he  would  be 
wise  arid  strong  enough  to  guard  her,  if  ever  in  the 
future  she  should  grant  that  to  him,  so  that  the  ugliness 
of  life  should  never  hurt  her  if  he  could  help  it.  Not 
even  the  winds  of  heaven  should  visit  her  face  too 
roughly,  he  thought,  the  phrase  singing  itself  over  and 
over  in  his  mind. 

The  sun  was  high  over  his  head,  marking  the  noon, 
but  in  the  shade  of  the  path  he  took  off  his  hat,  letting 
the  light  wind  ruffle  his  thick  hair.  The  dust  of  the  walk 
and  of  the  journey  was  on  his  new  gray  clothes  and  he 
was  glad;  he  felt  drolly  self-conscious  to  be  coming  to 
her  in  such  fine  array  after  all  her  daily  knowledge  of 
his  rumpled  garments  and  working  blouses,  and  yet  he 
was  boyishly  pleased.  She  would  not  think  him  a 
sloven. 

He  turned  aside  from  the  road  to  mount  the  hill,  and 
as  he  did  so  Katherine's  figure  appeared  at  the  top, 
silhouetted  against  the  blue.  She  was  not  alone.  Beside 
her,  very  close,  was  a  tall  young  man,  and  her  arm  was 
slipped  through  his,  and  his  other  hand  was  laid  upon 
hers  in  a  gesture  of  intimacy.  Her  face  was  upturned 
to  his,  and  her  lips  were  moving  in  soft,  laughing  speech. 
He  was  smiling  down  upon  her.  And  upon  both  their 
faces  was  the  look  that  life  wears  only  once  in  all  its 
time. 

128 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

MacNare  stopped  short.  He  did  not  stir  and  was 
standing  as  rigidly  by  the  path  as  one  of  his  own  statues 
when  Katherine  caught  sight  of  him  and  the  color  came 
rushing  rosily  to  her  pretty  face.  It  was  a  day  when 
her  young  blood  was  swift  to  stir. 

With  an  accent  of  frank  pleasure  she  called  his  name, 
and  as  he  advanced  and  met  them  she  presented  him  to 
the  tall  soldier  at  her  side,  who  greeted  him  with  the 
cordiality  of  an  absent-minded  god.  It  did  not  take 
more  than  one  glance  to  see  that  this  Captain  Edgerton, 
from  whose  arm  her  hand  had  fallen,  was  a  man  in  the 
very  top-heaven  of  happiness. 

His  young  face  was  shining  as  if  a  lamp  were  lighted 
back  of  his  eyes.  To  MacNare,  suddenly  conscious  of 
defeated  years,  the  boy  seemed  victorious  youth,  hand- 
some, happy-hearted,  created  for  passion  and  vigor  and 
triumphant  love. 

Bitterness  surged  sickeningly  over  him ;  it  filled  his 
mouth,  his  throat,  his  nostrils  like  a  palpable  taste.  .  :  . 
The  sudden  eclipse  of  all  tender  expectation  dashed  a 
sense  of  suffocating  despair  into  his  very  soul.  He  met 
his  own  pain  with  iron  contempt  for  its  deluded 
folly.  He  knew,  now,  that  he  was  done  with  folly  for- 
ever. 

Meanwhile  he  was  walking  with  them,  and  talking. 
At  least  he  was  answering  Katherine's  half-absent  ques- 
tions. It  did  not  seem  strange  to  her  that  MacNare  had 
come,  for  Madame  Bonnet  had  told  her  that  often  he 
went  to  the  farm,  and  she  chatted  of  him  and  his  child 
to  Edgerton  with  the  kindness  of  an  overflowing  heart. 
Perhaps  Edgerton,  suddenly  perceiving  the  vigorous 

129 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

youth  of  this  father  of  Peggy  of  whom  she  had  written 
as  of  a  graybeard,  had  his  own  thoughts,  but  he  was 
too  scrupulous  to  admit  them.  He  could  afford  to  feel 
a  pang  of  pity  for  the  dark-browed  fellow  who  had 
stared  so  blankly  at  them. 

They  reached  Marie's  where  the  scent  of  the  duck- 
lings filled  the  air,  and  where  Jean  Bonnet  and  his  two 
children  in  their  Sunday  best  were  waiting  to  greet  him, 
but  it  appeared  that  MacNare  could  not  remain  for 
dinner.  Peggy  must  get  her  hat  and  say  farewell. 

Marie  was  voluble  in  regret.  Moving  on  to  Armande  ? 
What,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  was  there  to  interest  a 
gentleman  at  Armande  ?  Pigs  and  a  bad  smell  pervaded 
that  place — it  was  no  village  for  a  gentleman — and  at 
dinner  hour,  also,  with  ducklings  ready  to  pop  into  one's 
mouth ! 

Armande  was  but  the  first  of  a  journey,  he  assured 
her.  He  and  Peggy  were  upon  a  pilgrimage.  It  was 
for  their  health.  .  .  . 

And  so  he  was  gone,  the  child  clinging  tightly  to  his 
hand,  desolated  at  being  torn  from  the  small  Thomas 
and  the  black  pigs,  but  shutting  her  lips,  so  like  his  own, 
over  her  griefs.  For  no  more  than  an  hour  had  he  been 
at  Les  Buissons  and  for  no  more  than  an  hour  was  he 
remembered  by  the  girl  he  had  gone  to  meet. 

"I'm  always  so  sorry  for  him!"  she  sighed  to  her 
lover. 

He  gazed  into  her  radiant  eyes.  "I'm  sorry  for 
everybody  else  in  the  whole  wide  world,  sweetheart." 

She  had  come  there  to  avoid  Edgerton.     She  had  con- 
130 


fessed  that  to  him  that  morning  when  he  had  met  her 
in  the  road,  setting  forth  upon  her  trip  to  the  hill. 

When  his  letter  had  reached  her,  announcing  that  at 
last  he  was  free  to  come  to  Paris  for  another  week- 
end and  asking  her  to  wire  if  not  convenient,  she  had 
hesitated  and  dallied  until  the  last  moment.  And  then 
sudden  panic  had  sent  winging  the  late  reply  that  she 
was  to  be  out  of  the  city,  for  a  week  in  the  country, 
painting.  Hurriedly  that  Saturday  she  had  packed  her 
things  and  fled  to  the  daughter-in-law  of  whom  madame 
had  so  often  told  her.  It  was  sheer  fright,  scurrying  for 
cover.  She  was  afraid  of  him,  of  that  steady  intentness, 
that  simple  concentration  of  his.  She  told  herself  that 
she  didn't  know  him,  that  he  didn't  know  her,  that  it  was 
too  soon,  that  they  were  too  young,  that  it  was  absurd 
to  think  that  he  meant  anything  and  that  she  must  be 
awaiting  him  as  if  she  meant  anything,  and  that  she  was 
too  unsettled  to  decide  anything  at  all.  .  .  .  And  so  she 
fled  .  .  .  like  any  mid-Victorian  maiden,  instead  of  a 
modern  girl  confronting  her  future  with  fearless  eyes. 

For  just  one  second  Edgerton  had  been  balked  by  that 
telegram.  But  he  was  a  young  man  who  hated  disap- 
pointments. Metaphorically  he  sprang  into  the  saddle 
and  made  for  the  border.  What  he  really  did  was  to 
come  straight  to  Paris,  and  finding  that  the  studio  build- 
ing had  no  telephone  he  took  a  cab  to  it  and  inquired 
for  Miss  King  of  Madame  Bonnet.  Madame,  believing 
him  no  more  than  a  caller,  replied  that  mademoiselle  was 
out  of  town  and  gave  her  address.  This  happened  Sat- 
urday evening,  while  MacNare  was  packing  his  bags. 

Edgerton  left  on  the  evening  train  for  Les  Buissons. 
131 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

He  had  no  notion  what  manner  of  place  it  might  be  but 
if  Katherine  were  there  he  was  confident  that  he  could 
find  her.  American  girls  with  gray  eyes  and  yellow  hair 
were  not  so  frequent  as  to  be  unnoticed  in  rural  France. 

His  inquiries  informed  him  of  her  presence  at  Jean 
Bonnet's,  but  it  was  late,  for  the  train  had  not  hurried 
in  its  extremely  local  character,  so  he  had  gone  to  the 
inn  and  slept  the  sleep  of  young  and  eager  lovers — that 
is  to  say  he  had  been  awake  half  the  night,  not  unhap- 
pily. And  then  he  had  slept  so  heavily  and  long,  that 
though  he  had  dashed  through  his  petit  dejeuner  Kath- 
erine was  just  coming  down  the  path  into  the  road,  her 
sketchbook  under  her  arm  when  he  met  her. 

Whatever  misgivings  the  young  man  had  had  as  to 
her  reception  of  his  audacity  had  vanished  at  that  mo- 
ment. Her  starry-eyed  surprise,  the  sweet  color  stealing 
into  her  cheeks,  the  hint  of  confusion — these  unconscious 
signs  banished  every  doubt  that  had  battled  with  the 
happiness  of  his  coming.  His  own  face,  though  he  did 
not  know  it,  was  shining. 

They  touched  hands,  then  he  took  her  sketching 
things  from  her,  and  together  they  turned  into  the  road 
and  walked  side  by  side  under  the  trees,  and  then  climbed 
the  hill  where  she  set  out  her  things  and  made  a  pretense 
of  painting.  But  soon  she  gave  up,  with  a  confessing 
laugh,  and  they  seated  themselves  in  the  long  grass  in 
the  shade  of  the  wide-branched  trees,  looking  off  into  the 
sunny  distances. 

The  air  was  sweet  with  the  slow  ringing  of  bells.  On 
the  road  below  them  the  country  folk  were  coming  in  to 
church  but  from  their  point  they  could  not  see  the  road, 

132 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

only  the  field  and  wood  beyond,  with  the  blue  gleams  of 
a  winding  river  against  the  green-gray  of  more  distant 
woods. 

It  was  a  day  of  tender  warmth,  of  high  heartbeats,  of 
dreams  that  seemed  to  hover  with  gossamer  wings  like 
the  bright  butterflies  circling  about  them.  Small  need 
for  words  on  such  a  day.  It  was  enough  to  be  together. 
They  shared  a  sense  of  something  blessed  and  uplifting ; 
of  happiness  in  which  the  whole  world  seemed  to  take 
part.  Whatever  Power  had  made  them  had  given  them 
this. 

He  was  looking  at  her  with  all  his  heart  in  his  eyes, 
honest,  unashamed,  unbelievably  tender.  His  hand  in 
the  grass  was  pressing  close  to  hers.  Suddenly  he  said 
huskily,  "Ever  since  I've  known  you,"  and  bent  and 
pressed  the  back  of  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

Then  he  lifted  his  head  and  looked  down  on  her,  and 
she  saw  the  brightness  of  his  eyes  darken  and  grow  grave 
with  the  question  asked. 

She  sat  very  still,  her  hand  lying  in  his,  her  eyes  up- 
turned, held  by  his.  She  was  pale  and  her  heart  was 
beating  unsteadily,  shaken  by  a  terrifyingly  sweet  sur- 
prise that  was  not  at  any  suddenness  in  his  touch  or 
words,  for  these  were  the  simple  crystallization  of  the 
vague  happiness  in  which  she  seemed  to  have  been  float- 
ing, but  a  surprise  that  it  should  all  seem  to  her  so 
simple,  so  natural,  so  inevitable. 

The  moment  had  brought  its  revelation  and  de- 
molished at  a  touch  her  vagueness  and  her  wistful  hesi- 
tancies. The  eyes  that  were  lifted  to  him  grew  starry 
bright  through  their  soft  wonder.  .  .  . 

133 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

With  a  gesture  infinitely  tender  he  gathered  her  into 
his  arms  and  held  her  close,  his  cheek  pressed  against 
hers  one  throbbing  moment  before  his  kiss  touched  her 
cheek  and  then  her  quivering  lips.  It  was  a  shy,  sweet 
passage  of  love  that  held  their  first  kiss,  so  much  of  the 
reverent  boy  in  him,  so  much  of  the  unawakened  girl  in 
her. 

And  like  two  happy  children  in  some  enchanted  wood, 
they  lingered  through  unperceived  hours,  while  the  sun 
grew  higher  and  higher  overhead,  and  dancing  gleams 
of  sunshine  dappled  the  fawn-colored  shade. 

Their  talk,  fitful  and  infrequent,  ran  at  first  upon 
their  past,  that  short  little  past  which  had  accomplished 
such  tremendous  miracles  of  things  for  them.  He  told 
her  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  on  the  boat,  but 
that  he  couldn't  quite  believe  it,  for  he  hadn't  fancied 
himself  the  sort  to  fall  in  love  with  anyone. 

"As  if  a  chap  knew  himself  in  these  things !"  he  said 
with  a  laughing  contempt  from  his  height  of  experience 
for  that  callow  ignorance  of  yesterday.  "But  my  chums 
have  always  chaffed  me  for  being  such  an  awfully  thick- 
skinned  sort  that  I'd  come  to  believe  them — fancied  that 
when  I  married  it  would  be  some  nice  neighborly  jog- 
trot affair,  arranged  by  the  Mammas.  ...  I  never 
dreamed  of  this." 

His  arm  tightened  about  her  as  he  spoke.  Katherine 
leaned  back  against  it  and  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes 
that  were  brushed  with  laughing  surprise. 

"I'm  afraid  that  there  was  some  nice,  neighborly  girl 
in  the  background  that  you  did  dream  of !" 

The  fresh  color  rose  high  under  his  bronzed  skin. 
134 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"But  I  didn't  dream."  He  hesitated,  uncomfortably. 
"You  see,  dearest,  it's  not  very  easy  to  talk  about.  It 
sounds  as  if  I  were  fearfully  conceited.  But  I've  always 
fancied — you  know  how  Maters  look  out  for  one?" 

Katherine,  remembering  her  unworldly  and  improvi- 
dent mother,  tempered  her  assent  with  reservation. 

"Well,  there  is  a  very  sweet  little  girl  next  place  to 
ours — we  were  rather  fond  of  each  other  as  kids.  And 
later  I  imagined,  Oh,  from  nothing  on  the  girl's  part, 
you  know " 

"That  wasn't  true,"  thought  Katherine  with  inner 
conviction. 

"It  was  Mater  rather  put  the  idea  in  my  head,  just 
because  she  wished  it,  I  fancy,  and  so,  as  there  was  noth- 
ing at  all  in  it,  I  kept  out  of  the  way.  I've  only  been 
down  to  the  Hall  once  this  spring — when  I  took  those 
snaps  I  brought  you.  Remember?  Now  next  week  I 
have  to  go  down — it's  Mater's  birthday — and  that  was 
one  of  the  reasons  I  couldn't  let  your  telegram  put  me 
off.  It  had  been  impossible  to  get  away  to  you  before, 
and  I  had  to  see  you  before  I  went  down  and  have  some- 
thing definite  to  go  on." 

He  added,  his  voice  a  happy  boy's,  "And  for  my 
long  leave,  the  end  of  next  month,  you'll  come  to  the 
Hall,  won't  you  darling?  Mater  will  write  you,  of 
course." 

"But — but  you're  not  going  to  tell  her — at  once  ?" 

Katherine  sat  up  very  straight,  a  yellow  elf-lock 
tumbling  over  a  flushed  cheek,  her  gray  eyes  round  with 
ingenuous  wonder. 

"Of  course." 

135 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"But — it's  so  fearfully  sudden!  I  can't  imagine 
what  my  own  mother  will  say !" 

"When  she  sees  me?"    The  Captain  chuckled. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  worrying  about  that,"  she  conceded  with 
fond  pride.  "It's  what  she'll  say  before  she  sees  you — 
when  you're  just  a  vague,  unknown  English  officer." 

"I  know."  He  looked  concerned.  "It  is  pretty 
abrupt  for  her.  I've  thought  about  it.  But  your 
friends — these  Whartons? — those  very  charming  souls 
on  the  boat,  they  know  your  mother  don't  they?  And 
they  will  write  and  reassure  her  that  I'm  not  a  fearful 
cut-throat,  and  you  can  have  your  friends  investigate 
me,  you  know.  And  I  assure  you,  darling,"  he  declared, 
"that  I  can  stand  any  amount  of  investigation !" 

Katherine  smiled  vaguely,  tucking  up  her  blowing 
hair,  confused  with  sudden  thoughts  of  her  mother,  and 
of  the  Whartons'  surprise,  after  their  warnings  of  the 
Captain's  "caste." 

"It  all  sounds  very  far  away,"  she  murmured. 

"Far  away!  Dear  girl,  aren't  you  to  marry  me  in 
six  months  ?" 

"Six  m ?" 

She  let  her  hair  alone  and  stared  at  him,  her  lips 
parted. 

"I  know  chat  dates  are  the  bride's  prerogatives,"  he 
smiled,  "but  you  aren't  averse  to  suggestions,  dear? 
Of  course,  if  you  can  be  ready  in  three — 

"Why,  I  can't  be  married  for  years  and  years !" 
Katherine  gasped. 

He  put  a  strong  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  back  to 
his  shoulder  again. 

136 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Presently  she  admitted,  "Well — next  summer,  then. 
Next — summer.*' 

"I'll  come  for  you  at  any  time.  But  it  seems  to  me 
tliat  spring " 

She  murmured,  "My  poor  mother." 

"She  won't  like  your  living  in  England?" 

"Of  course  not."  And  she  added,  her  lips  curving, 
"And  I  won't,  either. 

Said  the  Captain  confidently,  "Wait  till  you've  seen 
it." 

"It  doesn't  matter.  If  it  were  as  horrid  as  India " 

"Would  you,  my  darling?" 

With  such  interruptions  the  conversation  did  not  pro- 
ceed rapidly.  But  by  and  by  an  ordered  plan  came  out 
of  the  incoherence.  Instead  of  his  announcing  it  at  once, 
as  it  was  his  frank  young  intention  to  do,  and  having 
her  invited  to  the  Hall  during  his  leave  the  last  of  July 
and  the  first  of  August,  they  would  wait  until  his  leave, 
and  then  she  would  come  to  London  with  the  Whartons, 
who,  she  remembered,  were  providentially  scheduled  to 
appear  among  the  English  cathedrals  at  that  time. 
Then  he  could  come  and  see  her,  and  she  would  meet 
his  mother  in  a  less  trying  way  than  plunging  down  to 
the  Hall  for  a  visit,  and  then  everything  could  be  an- 
nounced, both  to  his  side  and  to  hers. 

The  Whartons  were  to  sail  for  America  the  last  of 
August,  and  their  personal  word  would  allay  her 
parents'  anxieties.  "Though,  of  course,"  she  worriedly 
mentioned,  "even  their  glowing  account  of  you  isn't 
going  to  make  England  any  nearer  to  mother." 

"But  you  can  go  often  to  her,  dear,  and  with  your 
137 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

father's  long  vacations — he's  a  professor,  isn't  he? — he 
and  your  mother  can  come  often  to  you." 

"You  don't  know  a  professor's  salary,"  said  the  girl 
with  a  whimsical  smile  for  the  intrusion  of  rueful  prac- 
ticalities into  the  idealism  of  the  hour,  "nor  the  cost  of 
living  in  the  great  American  Republic — and  supporting 
our  millionaires  and  trusts !  However — we'll  manage." 

As  for  the  immediate  future — and  the  young  man 
kept  a  very  commanding  eye  upon  that — it  was  finally 
agreed  that  she  would  return  to  Paris  for  a  time — 
"Where  I  can  get  over  to  see  you,"  he  declared,  with  a 
shameless  disregard  for  the  claims  of  art — and  then, 
abridging  that  year  of  work,  she  would  return  just  be- 
fore Christmas  to  America,  so  as  to  have  at  least  six 
months  at  home  before  he  came  for  her  in  June. 

It  seemed  very  unreal  and  dreamlike,  as  they  planned 
it  there  on  the  hilltop,  and  yet — he  had  such  a  way  of 
making  dreams  come  true !  How  dream-like  he  had 
seemed  to  her  memory,  those  first  days  in  Paris,  and  yet 
how  real  and  how  vivid  he  was  now — more  near  and 
dear  than  anything  in  the  world.  Her  eyes  kept  turning 
to  him  with  that  touching  look  of  soft  and  happy 
wonder.  She  hardly  knew  what  had  been  happening  to 
her. 

But  what  had  happened  was  so  clearly  written  in  her 
face  that  MacNare  had  not  needed  to  look  twice. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

IT  was  a  day  of  enchantment. 
At  the  farm  Katherine  presented  the  Englishman 
to  Marie  Bonnet's   astonishment — Marie  was   al- 
ready in  a  sentimental  excitement  over  the  appearance 
of  MacNare  and  his  strange  haste  to  find  the  mademoi- 
selle— and  Jeffrey  Edgerton,  believing  it  more  seemly  to 
establish  his  status,  had  made  the  first  announcement  of 
his  betrothal  in  that  ancient  farmhouse  to  these  un- 
known French  folk. 

There  was  something  idyllic  in  the  rustic  quality  of 
the  scene  that  touched  the  fancies  of  the  young  lovers. 
The  long,  dark,  low-ceiled  room,  the  sunshine  sparkling 
through  the  tiny  casements  upon  the  table  spread  with 
Marie's  whitest  linen  and  the  brightest  of  the  old  pot- 
tery, the  open  door  through  which  inquiring  hens  wan- 
dered, the  shining,  rosy  faces  of  the  little  children, 
were  all  delighting  to  the  girl's  pictorial  sensitiveness. 

They  dined  upon  the  ducklings  that  were  fit  to  pop 
into  the  mouth  of  an  archangel  as  the  merry  Jean 
declared,  and  afterwards  Jean,  his  French  blood 
stirred  by  the  romance  of  these  newcomers  to  his  hos- 
pitable roof,  descended  to  his  tiny  cellar  and  returned 
10  139 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

with  a  cobwebby  bottle  of  the  vintage  of  the  last 
seigneur  wherein  to  drink  the  health  of  mademoiselle 
and  le  capitaine,  if  they  would  graciously  permit. 

And  Katherine,  touching  glasses  half  shyly,  felt  the 
first  stir  of  womanly  possessive  pride  as  she  saw  how 
Jeffrey's  unconscious  charm,  his  boyishness  over  his  di- 
rect, manly  authority,  had  captivated  already  those 
simple  but  shrewd  folk. 

Afterward  the  young  people  had  another  walk  and 
talk,  in  the  heart  of  the  dreamy  afternoon,  and  later 
they  climbed  their  hill  again,  while  the  long  twilight  died 
into  the  first  faint  starlight,  and  the  magic  of  evening 
turned  the  world  to  fairyland. 

Life,  in  that  hour,  seemed  to  hold  its  cup  brimming  at 
her  lips.  Older  than  the  seigneur's  vintage,  she  tasted 
of  the  very  wine  of  miracle. 

Silvery  and  remote  the  fields  lay  at  their  feet,  with 
the  soft  white  gauze  mists  stealing  over  them.  The 
woods  looked  far  and  shadowy ;  the  distant  river  revealed 
itself  in  pale  and  fugitive  gleams.  .  .  .  How  high  above 
the  world  she  seemed,  with  Jeffrey  at  her  side.  .  .  .  And 
his  eyes  upon  her,  those  dear,  blue  eyes  with  their  look 
of  love  and  power,  their  strong,  "Trust  me,"  to  her 
every  sense.  She  knew  that  she  would  answer  that  look 
as  long  as  her  heart  had  strength  to  beat. 

And  that  night,  as  she  lay  in  Marie  Bonnet's  rose- 
mary-scented linen  sheets,  with  the  starlight  stealing  in 
the  casement,  and  the  scent  of  the  hay  mingling  with 
the  breath  of  the  night,  she  lived  that  hour  again,  and 
her  heart  was  very  humble  in  its  joy.  .  .  .  Through  all 

140 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

the  chances  of  the  world  love  had  come  to  her,  a  splen- 
did love,  a  love  to  which  one  could  give  one's  life  in 
honoring.  And  she  was  grateful  that  she  had  been  true 
to  herself,  to  those  deep  instinctive  cravings  that  had 
spoken  of  high  and  stirring  things  so  that  she  had  kept 
her  heart  free  and  her  life  unfettered  to  answer  the  clear 
call  when  it  came. 

Also  it  seemed  very  wonderful  to  her  that  Jeffrey 
Edgerton  should  love  her  as  he  did.  She  was  not  too 
young  to  feel  the  rarity  of  that  pure,  romantic  impulse 
in  him  that  had  brought  him  to  her,  undelayed  by  con- 
siderations of  a  more  worldly  choice,  but  it  was  not 
that  he  had  yielded  to  his  love  as  that  she  should  have 
awakened  it  that  made  her  heart  beat  fast  and  her  cheeks 
flush  in  the  darkness  of  that  happy  night.  Her  feel- 
ings were  beyond  anything  that  she  had  known,  any- 
thing that  she  had  divined  that  she  could  know.  All 
things  that  were  in  her,  heart  and  soul  and  mind  and 
body,  were  united  like  a  single  flame  in  that  altar  fire  of" 
her  devotion. 


CHAPTER  XV 

KATHERINE  returned  from  Les  Bulssons  upon 
Wednesday,  not  waiting  to  stay  her  week,  feel- 
ing each  day  of  importance  now  in  those  classes 
where  her  time  was  to  be  so  abridged.  And  knowing  that 
Marie  would  inevitably  write  to  her  mother-in-law  of  the 
English  officer  who  had  appeared  upon  that  Sabbath, 
making  his  revelations,  she  showed  Madame  Bonnet  his 
picture,  one  day  in  her  room,  with  a  brief  statement. 

"Ma  foi!"  said  madame  amazedly,  and  then  promptly 
expressed  many  graceful  wishes  for  the  mademoiselle's 
happiness.  "Eh,  Mary,  Mother  of  God,  what  have  I 
done!"  ran  her  inner  ejaculations.  And,  a  suitable 
time  having  been  devoted  to  the  mademoiselle's  happy 
prospects,  she  recurred  casually  to  the  ones  at  Les 
Buissons,  and  inquired  if  Monsieur  MacNare  had  ap- 
peared at  the  farm.  She  had  urged  him  to  take  the  lit- 
tle one  there  for  her  health. 

And  Katherine  answered  simply  that  he  had  come  but 
did  not  stay ;  she  thought  he  was  making  some  sort  of  a 
tour. 

"A  tour  of  Purgatory,"  said  madame's  inner  self 
with  conviction.  And  she  wondered,  with  a  flame  of  re- 

142 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

sentment  against  self-absorbed  youth,  wrapped  in  the 
chrysalis  of  its  own  affairs,  what  Heaven  had  given  the 
girl  such  large  clear  gray  eyes  for,  if  it  was  not  to  see 
through  a  grindstone.  .  .  .  And  why  had  the  girl,  her 
heart  gone  to  an  absent  Englishman,  been  so  lavish  of 
herself  with  the  American?  Did  she  think  he  was  of 
marble  like  his  own  statues  ?  Did  she  think  that  lonely 
men  were  made  to  contemplate  pink  cheeks  and  bright 
eyes  and  hear  merry  laughter  every  day  of  the  calendar 
and  not  reach  a  hand  for  them? 

Apparently  that  was  Katherine's  frame  of  mind.  She 
did  have  an  uncomfortable  qualm  or  so  about  Mac- 
Nare's  abrupt  withdrawal  from  the  farm,  believing  that 
if  he  had  found  her  unoccupied  and  ready  to  share  her 
time  with  him,  he  would  have  stayed  companionably  on. 
But  she  did  not  dream  that  he  would  have  wanted  of  her 
more  than  friendliness.  She  merely  thought  that  the 
contrast  between  her  evident  happiness  and  his  own 
marred  life  was  painful  for  him. 

For  two  weeks  MacNare  and  Peggy  were  away.  And 
then  one  night  they  were  back,  Peggy  browner  and 
healthier  than  of  yore,  with  dusty  clothes  and  shabby 
boots  and  an  epic  of  narrative,  concerned  with  intimate 
detail  of  four-legged  beasties  for  she  had  a  farmer's 
heart,  and  MacNare  leaner,  grimmer,  more  taciturn  than 
ever.  Between  madame  and  himself  not  one  word  was 
ever  exchanged  concerning  that  ill-omened  expedition 
of  his. 

But  Katherine,  believing  that  madame  would  communi- 
cate the  fact  of  her  engagement,  and  aware,  too,  that  he 
could  not  have  been  unperceptive  of  her  evident  relation 

143 


to  Edgerton,  though  their  enlightening  remarks  to  the 
Bonnets  had  been  made  after  his  departure,  felt  that  she 
really  ought  to  make  some  reference  to  it  so  he  would 
not  feel  that  her  friendship  was  not  being  frank  with 
him.  Indeed,  so  overflowing  was  her  heart  with  it,  that 
it  was  hard  not  to  tell  all  her  world — desperately  hard 
not  to  write  it  in  those  letters  of  hers  home. 

But  there  she  knew  it  would  cause  pain  and  appre- 
hension. "John,"  her  mother  would  say  tragically, 
"we've  let  that  goose  of  a  girl  go  off  painting — and 
she's  engaged  herself  to  an  unknown  Englishman. 
What  shall  we  do?" 

And  she  could  hear  her  father's  unrevealing  reply, 
"Do?  She  seems  to  have  done  enough  herself.  Just 
what  does  she  say?" 

And  then  they  would  go  over  and  over  it,  worrying, 
unsettled,  confronting  the  grief  of  losing  her,  and  the 
anxieties  of  her  choice. 

No  need  of  perturbing  them  now.  In  a  month,  when 
they  would  soon  see  the  Whartons — when  she  had  grown 
more  used  to  this  new  state  of  things.  It  was  one  thing 
to  reveal  the  happiness  of  her  engagement  and  another 
to  go  into  all  the  plans  that  must  ensue. 

Nor  could  she  tell  her  mother  very  well  until  Jeffrey 
had  told  his,  and  that  announcement  she  had  absolutely 
prohibited  until  they  should  meet  in  London. 

The  opportunity  of  speaking  of  it  to  the  Surly  Man 
did  not  occur  immediately.  He  was  working  like  a 
demon  upon  that  fountain  of  his,  and  when  they  met 
the  conversation  did  not  flow  into  channels  of  intimate 
revelation.  The  most  of  his  remarks  were  ireful  com- 

144 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

ments  upon  models.  Katherine  reminded  herself  that 
her  small  concerns  were  a  very  negligible  factor  in  his 
interests,  and  that  however  she  might  have  occasionally 
served  to  fill  some  of  the  gaps  in  his  solitary  life  for 
him,  he  probably  did  not  remember  her  existence  when 
the  flame  of  his  genius  was  kindled  in  him. 

In  which  she  was  utterly  deceived.  For  into  the 
woman  of  his  Fountain  of  Life  MacNare  was  pour- 
ing the  buoyancy  and  the  young  gladness  of  the  girl  he 
secretly  loved  and  his  passion  touched  the  face  in  marble 
with  the  light  which  was  denied  to  shine  upon  him.  And 
many  a  night,  his  head  bent  in  his  hands,  he  sat 
motionless  by  the  open  window,  while  from  above  floated 
down  the  soft  strains  of  the  Croatian  song  that  Kath- 
erine loved  so  much. 

"  'Live — live — live,  the  sun  and  stars  shall  light- 
you — '  " 

But  it  was  the  second  verse  that  she  sang  oftenest 
now. 

'  'Love,  love,  love,  some  magic  glance  befall  you, 
Love,  love,  love,  some  magic  whisper  call  you, 
Love,  love  ,love,  some  magic  touch  enthrall  you.'  " 

And  then  in  a  little  shower  of  happy  notes  the  gay 
little  love  song  from  "Carmen"  would  come  down  to  him, 
or  the  plaintiveness  of  old  ballads.  But  it  was  always 
of  love  that  she  sang. 

And  he  who  had  called,  "Pas  de  chanteuses"  after  his 
145 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

first  glimpse  of  her  back,  sat  and  listened,  his  windows 
wide  to  catch  every  faint  and  delicate  note. 

She  was  not  working  much  those  days.  Her  dream 
possessed  her.  And  as  her  dream  concerned  first  of  all 
that  visit  to  London,  happily  arranged  with  the  Whar- 
tons,  and  that  visit  meant  luncheons  and  teas  and  din- 
ners and  drives  and  pretty  frocks,  her  errant  feet  led 
her  past  windows  of  alluring  hats  and  witching  gowns, 
and  her  wistful  eyes  were  full  of  chiffons  and  modes  and 
linens  and  practical  calculations. 

Since  she  was  not  to  stay  the  year  out  she  could 
draw  more  deeply  upon  the  sum  put  aside  for  that  year, 
a  sum  derived  from  part  of  a  small  legacy  and  from  a 
prize  competition  for  a  magazine  cover — the  prize 
against  which  Dick  Conrad's  resentment  had  burned  bit- 
terly. And  since  when  one  is  young  and  in  love  and 
Paris  frocks  are  a  Voccasion  it  would  be  a  sin  not  to 
be  beautiful  for  one's  beloved,  the  girl's  thoughts  and 
fingers  were  more  often  occupied  with  ninon  and  lace 
than  with  her  paints  and  brushes.  But  she  did  adhere 
determinedly  to  the  morning  classes,  which  met  now  in 
a  garden  of  the  substitute  teacher's  home. 

The  sunshiny  gladness  of  her  mood  fell  brightly  upon 
Etienne  de  Trezac.  Even  in  those  short  months  her 
French  had  grown  supple  and  quick,  and  was  pliant 
enough  now  for  her  jesting  humor  to  meet  his  own 
turns  of  raillery.  This  developed  a  habit  of  chaffing 
intimacy  which  she  greatly  enjoyed,  for  one  cannot  live 
entirely  upon  dreams  and  the  society  of  the  two  stren- 
uous and  elderly  American  art  teachers,  who  like  her- 
self were  staying  on  in  Paris  during  the  vacation  time. 

146 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

One  night  she  and  Etienne  dined,  "Dutch  treat"  as 
she  always  insisted,  except  upon  some  special  occasion, 
at  one  of  the  little  restaurants  upon  the  left  bank,  and 
then  were  tempted  into  a  rambling  walk  by  the  loveli- 
ness of  the  summer  night,  which  seemed  to  hang  upon 
them  like  a  sweet-breathing,  impalpable  presence. 

They  were  both  silent,  Katherine's  thought  so  given 
to  Jeffrey  that  it  almost  seemed  as  if  he  were  walking  at 
her  side.  The  beauty  of  the  night  without  him  made 
her  heart  ache,  but  when  she  thought  that  in  a  little 
time  now,  the  very  end  of  this  same  month,  he  would 
be  with  her  again,  why  then  her  pulses  seemed  to  sing 
in  their  light  beating. 

At  the  door  of  the  studio  building  Etienne,  his  man- 
ner oddly  irresolute,  asked  if  he  might  come  up. 

"For  the  space  of  one  last  cigarette,"  he  said  lightly. 
"I  have  the  blue-moon  hunger  to-night — you  would  not 
cast  me  off  to  it?" 

"For  just  a  little  then,"  said  Katherine  uncertainly. 
It  was  not  really  too  late  for  a  call,  but  she  wanted  to 
be  alone  and  write  to  Jeffrey  while  the  words  that  the 
night  had  brought  her  were  still  brimming  in  her  heart. 
But  her  good-humor  was.  too  pliant. 

In  the  studio  she  smilingly  offered  Etienne  the  matches 
for  that  cigarette  and  then  took  off  her  white  hat,  lift- 
ing the  flattened  hair  with  ruffling  fingers,  while  the 
young  man  stood  watching  her,  his  dark  eyes  intent, 
then  she  drifted  aimlessly  to  her  table  and  sat  down  to 
sorting  its  decidedly  overtaxed  capacities.  A  basket, 
brimming  with  a  tangle  of  lace,  brought  a  faint  smile 
to  her  lips  as  she  tidied  it. 

147 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"How  you  are  beautiful  to-night !"  said  De  Trezac 
suddenly,  with  honest  sincerity.  "You  are  always 
pretty — but  this  summer  you  have  bloomed  like  a 
flower.  Perhaps  it  is  the  Paris  air,"  he  added,  recap- 
turing his  old  note  of  raillery. 

"Then  it  is  a  pity  that  I  am  to  leave,'*  she  smiled, 
and  wondered  what  Jeffrey  thought  about  this  matter. 
Never,  she  recalled,  had  he  paid  her  one  of  those  com- 
pliments supposed  to  issue  from  a  lover's  lips.  Even 
the  Surly  Man  had  once  dryly  granted  her  "a  degree 
of  pulchritude."  Well — perhaps  Jeffrey  didn't  like  her 
looks.  Perhaps  he  preferred  brunettes.  Perhaps  it 
was  her  soul  he  loved,  or  her  intellectual  sobriety.  She 
felt  in  her  heart  the  soft  laughter  of  a  secure  and  happy 
love. 

"To  leave  Paris  ?"  De  Trezac  said,  with  sharpness. 

"Not  forever !  But  I  think  I  shall  take  a  vacation — 
and  see  London." 

"A  vacation  in  England — an  anomaly!  There  one 
does  not  relax.  Oh,  you  should  not  do  that,"  he  said 
quickly. 

He  added,  rising  suddenly  and  moving  restlessly 
around  the  room,  "But  you  are  right — here  it  is  too 
hot.  Impossible  to  work!  The  city  air — the  pave- 
ments— the  dust.  ...  I  will  tell  you.  .  .  .  You  have 
never  been  to  Normandy?" 

"I  have  never  been  anywhere  in  Europe  but  here." 

"You  should  see  Normandy.  And  what  better  time? 
...  I  will  tell  you.  ...  I  know  a  place — no  crowds,  no 
tourists,  but  the  sea  and  the  great  rocks —  Ah,  yes  you 
should  go  there  for  your  vacation,  yes  ?" 

148 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

She  said  absently,  faintly  surprised  by  his  odd  en- 
thusiasm but  too  preoccupied  with  her  own  thoughts 
for  attention,  "Oh,  I  know  Normandy  is  lovely, 
but " 

"Lovely?  It  is  a  heaven  upon  earth — when  one 
brings  the  essence  of  heaven  with  one !  .  .  .  Ah,  you 
will  come  with  me?  Yes?  I  will  manage.  I  will  take 
every  care " 

She  whirled  about  in  her  chair,  just  as  he  stooped  to 
bend  over  her.  His  face,  close  to  her  own,  was  alight 
with  his  strange  excitement ;  his  dark  eyes  were  glowing. 

She  thought  amazedly,  "Why — why,  he  is  perfectly 
mad!  .  .  .  He's  insulting  me !" 

It  seemed  to  be  absolutely  preposterous.  She  could 
have  smiled  at  such  a  word  in  connection  with  herself. 

Aloud  her  voice  was  saying  coldly,  "What  in  the 
world  are  you  talking  about?" 

Her  cool  crispness  was  arresting,  even  to  an  ardor 
abandoning  its  leash.  An  instant  wariness  leaped  in  his 
eager  eyes ;  he  looked  at  her  with  uncertain  calculation 
beneath  his  smile. 

"You  do  not  understand?  .  .  .  But  it  is  very  simple." 

Then  a  surge  of  feeling  drove  him  toward  her  again. 
"Ah,  you  make  me  quite  mad  for  you !  Be  a  little  kind, 
Katherine,  and  do  not  play  any  longer  with  me.  .  .  . 
Just  a  little  holiday  ...  in  Normandy " 

His  hurried  words  stopped.  She  had  drawn  frigidly 
back  from  his  eager  approach  and  taken  a  few  steps 
from  him  into  the  room,  where  she  paused  and  looked  at 
him  with  calm-eyed  assurance.  She  was  feeling  a  cold 
disgust,  a  bitter  impatience  at  his  stupidity. 

149 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"I  wonder  if  you  have  any  idea  how  absurd  you  are, 
Etienne?"  she  said  very  clearly. 

"Absurd?  But  why?"  His  expression  concentrated 
on  her  own. 

"To  say  such  things  to  me."  She  was  still  very  quiet 
and  clear-voiced.  Intuitively,  with  the  rush  of  enlight- 
enment, she  understood  that  he  would  laugh  at  heroics 
of  moral  indignation.  Her  scornful  amusement  was  her 
only  weapon.  "It  is  as  droll  as  if  a  tourist  to  whom 
one  had  been  pleasant  urged  your  sister  to  fly  for  a 
vacation  with  him!  I  had  not  thought  you  so  dull. 
Must  you  see  the  background  of  society,  the  chap- 
eronage  of  mother  and  father,  to  appreciate  one's  qual- 
ity and  one's  position  in  the  world?" 

An  ironic  smile  edged  his  handsome  lips.  "That  is  a 
little  too  strong,"  he  returned,  endeavoring  to  reflect 
her  calm,  but  with  the  betraying  color  burning  hotly 
in  his  cheeks.  "What  'position  in  the  world'  am  I 
to  assume  for  one  who  makes  Olga  Goulebeff  her 
intimate?" 

"Olga!  What  is  wrong  with  Olga?  She  is  a  com- 
rade, a  fellow-student — 

"And  the  very  good  friend  of  Louis  Arnaud !  When 
she  told  you  of  her  vacation  in  the  Alps,  the  winter 
sports,  the  games,  did  you  not  know  who  took  her  there, 
who — ?"  He  laughed  disagreeably  at  the  blank  stare 
she  gave  him. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  flung  back.  "I  don't  be- 
lieve  " 

"As  you  will."  He  shrugged  airily,  finding  himself 
growing  master  of  the  situation.  "But  as  for  me,  I 

150 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

know.  Louis  is  not  alone  in  his  conquest  J  To  every- 
one the  right  of  solace  in  neglect !" 

She  thought  his  laugh  was  the  most  hateful  thing 
that  she  had  heard  in  her  life. 

"And  you  can  boast — that  is  your  code!"  she  said 
furiously,  feeling  herself  in  defensive  league  with  her 
sex  against  his  dominant  one.  "Ah,  poor  Olga!" 

"Poor  Olga!  And  you  never  knew — you  never  sus- 
pected?" He  stared  hard  at  the  unbelievable  innocence 
of  her  gray  eyes.  Then  softly  he  whistled  and  snapped 
his  fingers. 

"Tiens!  .  .  .  What  was  I  to  think?  .  .  .  You  and 
Olga,  together.  .  .  .  And  you  played  with  me — "  He 
whirled  about  on  her  suddenly,  and  his  eyes  grew  hot  and 
angry  again.  "Can  you  pretend  that  you  have  not 
seen — not  permitted  one  to  believe?  What  was  it  that 
you  were  thinking,  in  the  name  of  Heaven?  Oh,  you 
knew,  you  were  content  to  have  me  follow  you,  to  smile 
at  me,  to  accept,  to  kindle — and  you  thought  to  hold  me 
at  a  distance  forever !  That  is  the  American  way,  then  ? 
You  would  practice  on  me,  amuse  yourself,  be  cool  while 
I — I — Name  of  a  Name,  but  you  Americans  are 
either  the  greatest  fools  on  earth  or  the  greatest  cheats  ! 
.  .  .  You  would  play  the  game  but  you  do  not  risk  the 
counters." 

"You  were — I  thought  you  were — my  friend !"  She 
gave  back,  and  flinched  at  his  laugh. 

"And  did  you  think  that  that  was  all  I  would  desire 
to  be — I  whom  you  permitted  to  see  you  alone,  to  dine 
with  you,  to  smile  into  your  eyes  ...  to  talk  to  you  of 
myself,  of  my  most  sacred  dreams — but  you  under- 

151 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

stood  what  was  growing  within  me.  It  is  impossible  to 
be  so  blind.  My  words,  my  actions 

"I  thought — you  were  gallant — that  your  real  liking 
made  a  pretense,  perhaps,  and  play  of  compliments  you 
did  not  feel " 

She  faltered,  and  he  made  a  sound  of  mingled  disgust 
and  unbelief. 

"Pretense !  .  .  .  Compliment !  For  a  pretense  do  I 
waste  my  time,  do  I  put  myself  at  the  service  of  a  girl 
who " 

Very  suddenly  the  color  came  back  into  her  pale 
cheeks,  and  very  suddenly  and  sharply  she  flung  back 
her  head,  with  that  oddly  boyish  gesture  of  defiance  in- 
stinctive to  her  moments  of  emotion. 

"I  have  been  used  to  American  men,"  she  uttered. 

"Are  they  blocks  of  wood?"  he  interposed,  with  im- 
pertinence. 

"They  are  men  of  honor,  and  their  friendship  for  a 
girl  is  very  real.  And  if  they  grow  to  be  more  than 
friends,  they  do  not  talk  nonsense  about  vacations,  like 
the  villains  in  the  theater.  They  are  honorable 
men,"  she  insisted  broadly,  like  Anthony  of  his 
Romans. 

"In  their  own  class  of  life,"  said  Etienne  de  Trezac, 
very  amiably.  "But — did  you  imagine  that  I  was  seek- 
ing my  future  countess  ?" 

In  a  society  where  chivalric  custom  had  sheered  man- 
kind of  its  pointed  clarity  of  speech  to  the  other  sex, 
however  unchivalricly  its  masculine  behaviors  may  veer 
beneath  the  veil,  Katherine  had  not  known  such  taunts 
could  be  endured.  And  the  bland  presentation  of  his 

152 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

assurance  of  her  social  inequality  was  gall  and  worm- 
wood to  her  proudly  democratic  soul. 

She  was  silent,  and  her  silence  was  not  unreceptive 
of  new  impressions  and  adjustments.  .  .  .  Even  in  her 
stinging  mortification  she  was  not  unconscious  of  various 
truths  in  his  position. 

She  uttered  chokingly,  "It  is  impossible  for  us  to  dis- 
cuss— "  and  then  her  pride  came  stoutly  to  her  aid. 
In  a  voice  that  sounded  creditably  like  her  own,  "For  we 
could  never  understand  each  other,"  she  continued. 
"However  impossible  I  might  be  to  your  society  as  a 
future  countess,  you  would  be  just  as  impossible  to 
mine,  and  I  should  be  making  myself  absurd,  and  cheap, 
if  I  were  to  consider  marrying  a  foreign  count  .  .  . 
you  do  not  know  how  the  Americans  laugh  at  the  mil- 
lionaires' daughters  who  bought  your  titles !  But  that 
is  the  very  reason,"  she  went  on  quickly,  "just  because 
our  lives  were  so  different,  that  I  thought  it  was  inter- 
esting to  be  friends,  and  thought  that  our  friendship 
Was  perfectly  safe,  because  we  could  neither  of  us  be 
more  to  each  other  than  friends." 

Her  French  began  to  stumble  and  hesitate.  She  was 
conscious  of  a  reaction  of  horrible  weariness  that  threat- 
ened to  leave  her  weakly  stranded,  without  having  made 
a  harbor.  Determinedly  she  rallied  her  forces  and  her 
language. 

"It  did  not  occur  to  me  that  you  could  think — any- 
thing else." 

He  looked  at  her  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  then 
gazed  down  into  the  cigarette  case  which  he  had  drawn 
out,  and  made  a  careful  selection. 

153 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"The  misunderstanding  seems  to  have  been  unani- 
mous," he  remarked  softly. 

Applying  a  match  he  added,  "Observe,  mademoiselle, 
the  villain  in  the  theater  always  smokes  a  cigarette." 

"And  makes  a  low  bow  at  the  door,"  she  supplemented 
with  a  wan  smile.  .  .  .  Most  unaccountably  and  uncon- 
trollably her  knees  were  trembling  under  her  and  she 
felt  a  supreme  desire  to  sink  down  into  the  nearest  chair. 
And  then  she  saw  that  the  hand  which  was  resting  upon 
the  back  of  the  chair  by  her  was  distinctly  quivering 
and  she  tried  desperately  to  control  it,  proudly  afraid 
he  would  read  her  excitement  for  weakness. 

"I  accept  the  suggestion,"  murmured  De  Trezac,  and 
moved  to  the  door  with  his  lightest  grace  of  carriage. 
It  occurred  to  her  that  the  honors  were  even.  If  he  had 
discredited  himself  in  her  eyes,  he  had  certainly  retali- 
ated with  a  few  home  truths  implanted  unforgettably  in 
her  pride. 

"Adieu — to  our  understanding,"  he  smiled,  made  his 
low  bow  with  a  flourish  and  was  gone. 

It  was  when  she  stood  before  Jeffrey  Edgerton's 
photograph  that  the  full  tide  of  shame  rose  over  her. 
That  such  a  thing  could  happen  to  his  betrothed !  .  .  . 
She  felt  dishonored,  cheapened.  .  .  .  She  could  feel  in 
the  leap  of  his  anger  against  De  Trezac  an  edge  of 
wounded  amazement  for  herself.  .  .  .  Never  would  he 
fully  understand.  .  .  .  Never  would  he  need  to  under- 
stand. 

She  knew  that  the  episode  was  buried  in  her  conscious- 
ness with  such  a  millstone  of  shame  tied  to  it  that  no 
tidal  storm  could  bring  it  to  the  surface. 

154- 


CHAPTER    XVI 

ONE  factor  of  the  situation  remained  for  her  to 
deal  with — Olga.     To  be  sure  she  had  not  seen 
much  of  Olga  lately,  but  their  manner  to  each 
other  had  long  been  of  a  casual  intimacy.  And  now  .  .  . 

Olga  was  not  at  classes  the  next  two  days  but  upon 
Sunday  morning  she  came  early  to  Katherine's  studio, 
with  rolls  and  butter  and  strawberries  under  her  arm, 
to  breakfast  in  the  room. 

"But  I  am  to  have  breakfast  in  the  cremerie  with 
Robert  MacNare  and  his  little  girl,"  said  Katherine. 
It  was  an  engagement  made  that  instant,  but  she  was 
familiar  with  Surly  Man's  hours  and  habits. 

"Then  I  will  eat  while  you  dress,  lazy  one,"  said 
Olga,  and  began  to  brew  her  own  coffee. 

As  she  dressed  Katherine  stole  a  troubled  glance  or 
two  at  the  other  girl.  It  was  a  problem  beyond  her 
powers.  She  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  repugnance 
for  the  sight  of  Olga's  little  laughing  mouth,  and  her 
secretive  eyes,  yet  the  repugnance  was  touched  by  a 
queer  pity. 

Olga  turned  briskly  and  found  Katherine's  eyes  upon 
her. 

11  155 


"How  you  stare!  Is  it  my  earrings?  Do  you  not 
like  them?" 

Her  attention  drawn  to  them  Katherine  found  her- 
self far  from  liking  them.  The  huge  pearls  that  for- 
merly would  have  easily  seemed  to  her  a  part  of  Olga's 
foreignness  became  significant  of  falsity,  commonplace 
and  cheap.  She  shook  her  head  shortly. 

"You  are  too  young  for  them." 

A  moment  later  she  added,  "Have  you  heard  from 
Louis  Arnaud?" 

Olga  continued  to  eye  the  boiling  coffee,  then  she 
looked  up  with  deliberate  fixity  of  expression.  "Now 
why  do  you  ask?" 

"Olga,  why  weren't  you  frank  with  me?"  blurted 
Katherine.  The  other  girl's  face  did  not  change.  It 
seemed  to  solidify  its  expression  of  blank  interrogation, 
to  grow  rigid  and  fixed  like  a  mask.  Her  little  eyes 
were  very  still. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"About  Louisi.  About  what  you  were  to  each  other. 
If — if  that  is  true.  .  .  ." 

Something  flickered  behind  those  set  eyes  and  then 
was  gone. 

"So  someone  has  been  talking  of  me,"  said  Olga,  in 
intense  disdain.  "You  listen  to  scandal — yes?" 

Katherine  felt  wretchedly  that  she  had  made  a  mis- 
erable botch  of  things  in  the  beginning.  Indeed  she 
did  not  know  what  she  had  expected  to  accomplish.  But 
the  old  relation  had  become  impossible  for  her,  and 
she  had  made  a  blind  rush  toward  the  truth. 

"Who  was  it?"  said  Olga  fiercely. 
156 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Katherine  was  silent. 

"And  you  believe — what  is  said  by  someone  you  dare 
not  name?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  believe." 

"Was  itEtienne?" 

"Does  it  matter  who  said  it?  If  only  it  isn't 
true " 

"Etienne — I  suppose  that  it  would  be  he !"  Katherine 
saw  Olga's  breast  heave  stormily,  yet  her  features  were 
unchanged  in  their  stony  wariness. 

"Yes,  it  was  he,"  said  Katherine  with  desperation. 
"And  if  it  isn't  true,  Olga,  outface  him  and  deny  it!" 

Olga  sat  watching  her  a  moment,  then  she  gave  a  bit- 
ter laugh. 

"And  if  I  do  would  you  believe  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Katherine  heavily,  and  disbelieved  herself. 

"And  if  it  were  true  you  desire  to  see  no  more  of 
me ?" 

"If — if  I   can   help   you,   Olga,   you   know   I  will. 
I " 

"Help !"  Olga's  sneer  was  something  that  Katherine 
remembered  for  many  a  day  with  a  sense  of  her  own 
inadequacy.  "What  do  you  call  help?" 

"If  you  need  money,"  Katherine  faltered,  "you  could 
come  here  to  me  for  a  time " 

"Shelter  for  the  Magdalene."  Decidedly  there  was  a 
terrible  spirit  loose  in  Olga  Goulebeff  that  morning. 
In  another  mood  she  might  have  met  Katherine  with 
denial,  with  mockery,  with  reassurance.  Now  she  was 
possessed  by  a  fury  of  insolent  and  indifferent  contempt. 

"Grand  merely  but  I  need  neither  a  bed  nor  a  sermon ! 
157 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

And  I  have  no  explanation  to  make  to  you!  Whatever 
you  think  of  me  and  Louis  .  .  .  it  is  not  my  concern.  I 
will  make  no  answer  to  such  impertinence.  Tell  Etienne 
de  Trezac  that  from  me.  And  as  for  yourself  and  Eti- 
enne  " 

"I  have  been  very  foolish  to  go  about  so  much  with 
him,"  said  Katherine  swiftly.  "And  perhaps  you  have 
been  only  foolish,  Olga.  .  .  .  Do  stop  then,  and  turn 
your  back  on  them.  You  have  talent.  You  can  make  a 
name  for  yourself.  And  some  day  you  will  meet  a  man 
worth  while " 

"My  talent !"  The  little  Russian  snapped  her  fingers. 
"You  have  seen  for  yourself  what  that  is !  A  straw ! 
I  might  make  a  drawing  mistress  in  a  provincial  school 
— if  I  had  the  references.  And  my  life — what  is  it?  My 
father's  people  cast  me  off.  He  was  above  my  mother. 
And  my  mother's  people — country  dullards  from  whom 
she  ran  away  to  come  to  Paris !  .  .  .  What  friends 
have  I?  ...  But  I  am  a  fool  to  talk.  .  .  .  Do  not 
think  I  admit  anything.  ...  I  despise  your  lies.  But 
you  can  clear  your  own  skirts." 

She  pushed  the  food  before  her  sharply  away  and 
turned  from  the  table. 

Katherine,  buttoning  her  blue  linen  frock  with  shak- 
ing fingers,  felt  a  terrible  pity. 

"Do  not  go — just  because  I  must  hurry  away,"  she 
stammered.  "Sit  down  and  eat  your  breakfast." 

Olga  stared  at  her  a  moment.  "Eh,  very  well,"  she 
said  at  last  coolly,  and  sat  down  again  at  the  table.  But 
her  eyes  returned  stealthily  to  Katherine. 

At  the  door  Katherine  paused.  She  wanted  to  add 
158 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

something  definite  to  the  futile  inadequacy  of  the  inter- 
view, to  say  something  friendly  and  kind  and  bracing. 
Her  feeling  of  indignation  against  the  girl  was  gone, 
lost  in  a  new  comprehension  and  sorrow.  She  was  too 
innocent  of  realities  to  feel  the  full  sordidness  of  the 
revelation.  But  she  could  think  of  nothing  to  say. 
Olga's  manner  made  her  feel  herself  an  intrusive 
fool. 

"Good-by,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  strained  voice, 
with  lowered  eyes,  as  if  hers  were  the  disgrace,  and 
"Good-by,"  returned  Olga  with  hard  brilliance,  reap- 
plying  herself  to  the  rolls. 

But  when  the  door  had  closed  Olga  leaned  back  from 
her  pretense  of  eating,  and  sat  very  still,  one  hand  on 
her  throbbing  throat. 

In  the  cremerie,  at  the  table  where  Katherine  joined 
MacNare  and  Peggy,  the  girl's  anxieties  could  not  be 
repressed. 

It  seemed  to  her  notions  of  American  responsibility 
that  she  ought  to  "do"  something,  something  helpful 
and  decisive,  but  she  felt  utterly  at  sea. 

"How  can  one  help?"  she  begged  of  MacNare,  with 
incoherent  suddenness  breaking  one  of  their  companion- 
able silences.  "There's  a  girl,  a  girl  at  the  school — a 
friend  of  mine,  too.  And  I  find  she's  been — she  isn't — I 
mean  she's  rather  gay — very  gay  and  rash  and  wild  and 
— and  wicked.  And  yet — I  think  she  was  in  love  with 
him  and  hoped.  .  .  .  Anyway  she's  all  alone,  and  I'm 
afraid  that  she's  going  on  drifting  and  drifting.  She 
hasn't  enough  ambition  for  anchor,  and  there  isn't  one 
to  whom  she  matters.  And  I — I've  said  all  the  wrong 

a  59 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

things  to  her,  and — and  I  don't  know  what  the  right 
things  are.  If  I  could  only  do  something " 

"Does  she  want  you  to  help  ?"  said  MacNare  briskly, 
buttering  his  roll. 

"No — no.  It  isn't  that.  But — what  is  going  to  be- 
come of  her?" 

"Several  things,"  said  the  young  man  coolly,  handing 
Peggy  the  roll  and  taking  another  for  himself.  Some- 
thing in  his  tone  made  Katherine  remember  with  a  start 
that  another  such  girl  had  found  being  his  wife  one  of 
the  things  that  she  could  compass.  "And  all  of  them 
beyond  your  power  of  interference,"  he  went  on. 

"But  I  seem  like — like  a  wretch  to  cast  her  off " 

MacNare  looked  shrewdly  at  the  girl's  flushed  cheeks 
and  troubled  eyes,  as  she  sat  staring  into  the  ugliness 
of  this  tragedy. 

"Does  she  want  to  cling  to  you  to  draw  herself  out 
of  the  mud,"  he  asked,  "or  to  lend  herself  countenance  in 
her  indulgence?  That's  one  question.  And  another — 
can  you  undertake  the  duties  of  permanent  prop?  .  .  . 
Nonsense.  Everyone  has  to  stand  on  his  own  feet.  It's 
grim  gospel,  but  it's  the  only  one  that  will  save  the 
world.  The  only  pilgrim  worth  salvage  is  the  kind  that 
climbs  his  hill  himself — not  gets  lugged  there  on  some 
poor  John  Christian's  back.  That  isn't  saying  that  we 
shouldn't  make  every  allowance  in  our  judgments,"  he 
added  with  unexpected  gentleness. 

"But — but  can't  we  help?" 

"Help?  Sometimes.  Sometimes  not.  'Character  is 
destiny,'  you  know,  and  you  can't  create  character. 
You  can't  even  legislate  it,"  he  added,  sardonically, 

160 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"though  the  American  legislatures  seem  trying  to  do 
that — for  the  other  fellow." 

Conscious  of  Peggy's  eyes  fixed  anxiously  upon  him, 
he  raised  his  coffee  to  his  lips,  and  the  child,  with  a 
relieved  sigh,  promptly  applied  her  thirsty  little  lips  to 
her  milk. 

Katherine  sat  silent. 

"Help?  How  do  you  think  you  can  help?"  he  shot 
at  her  with  sudden  irritability. 

But  that  was  just  what  nonplussed  her.  "Perhaps 
— if  she  had  plenty  of  good  companionship " 

"Meaning  yours?" 

With  a  ghost  of  a  smile  she  nodded. 

"Hasn't  she  had  it  all  summer?  And  can  you  hon- 
estly share  your  life  with  her  now,  your  friends?  And 
don't  flatter  yourself  that  anything  less  than  sharing 
counts.  Condescension  isn't  help.  It's  salt  on  the  raw. 
.  .  .  Nonsense.  Your  business  isn't  to  go  about  frat- 
ernizing with  wavering  virtue.  Your  business  is  to 
live  your  own  life  beautifully,  which  will  be  helpfully, 
and  to  paint  strong,  true,  beautiful  pictures  that  will 
take  the  seal  from  people's  eyes  and  hearts " 

He  stopped,  balking  at  the  first  hint  of  eloquence. 
He  added  very  slowly  and  gruffly,  his  eyes  turning  to 
that  signet  ring  on  her  finger  which  Jeffrey  had  placed 
there  until  the  London  visit,  "Besides — there's  more  to 
consider.  .  .  .  Hasn't  that  English  captain  friend  of 
yours  something  to  say  about  this?" 

It  was  the  first  mention  of  Edgerton  between  them 
since  the  encounter  at  Les  Buissons.  Katherine  felt 
the  self-conscious  color  rise  in  her  face.  She  had 

161 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

wanted  this  opportunity,  but  now  she  met  it  constrain- 
edly. "Yes,  I  suppose  he  has." 

"Well,  he'd  tell  you  to  wait  a  few  years  for  your 
missionarying.  .  .  .  You'll  find  plenty  of  chance  to  be 
quite  broadminded  enough  to  suit  him  in  years  to  come.'* 

"He's  not  narrow-minded,"  flashed  Katherine. 

"But  he's  not  fool  enough,  either,  I  hope,  to  want  you 
to  make  yourself  a  public  target  for  the  sake  of  a  sense- 
less girl."  The  Surly  Man  bit  quite  savagely  into  the 
crust  of  his  roll.  "Remember  that  in  Paris  you  will 
find  a  practically  unlimited  field  for  such  talents !" 

"You  make  me  feel  a  great  goose,"  said  Katherine, 
with  a  rueful  laugh. 

"That's  good.  A  woman  who  feels  herself  a  fool 
isn't  so  likely  to  be  making  one  of  herself  that  moment. 
.  .  .  Don't  marmalade  your  napkin,  Peg,  it  isn't  be- 
coming. .  .  .  How  soon  does  your  Academic  reopen?" 

"Not  till  September." 

"And  you've  given  yourself  one  year  for  your  study 
here?" 

"I — I  don't  think  I  shall  stay  that  year  out."  Some- 
how it  took  courage  to  say  that.  And  she  did  not  meet 
his  eyes.  Perhaps  her  subconscious  self  knew  a  little 
more  than  that  surface  girl  admitted.  "I  think  I'll  go 
home  for  Christmas." 

"Homesick?" 

"N-not  exactly." 

"Funds  out?" 

"No.  They're  all  right But — but  if  I'm  to  leave 

my  mother  rather  soon  for  good 

Still  she  did  not  look  up.  And  the  pause  between 
162 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

them  seemed  freighted  with  some  heavy  significance. 
She  could  not  have  told  why  she  felt  so  reluctant  about 
this  telling  him,  now  that  it  came  to  the  point. 

He  made  a  gruff  sound  of  comprehension.  Pres- 
ently he  said,  "Before  Christmas?" 

Peggy  raised  her  head  quickly.  "/  had  a  Christ- 
mas," she  said  eagerly.  "I  did — an'  I  had  a  doll  and; 
another  doll,  and  a  bed  for  a " 

"And  what  becomes  of  the  career?" 

"Oh — that?  That  goes  on,  forever  and  ever  as  long 
as  I  do,"  said  Katherine  with  sudden  relieved  gayety. 
"There  will  be  lots  of  chance  to  study  afterwards " 

Under  his  dark  brow  his  gaze  rested  on  her  a  long 
moment  in  silence,  then  he  said  sharply,  "See  that  there 
is !  For  if  it  is  the  real  thing  you  can  never  bury  it 
alive — it  will  be  like  a  living  child  struggling  for  birth. 
Mind  you,  I  don't  say  that  you  are  a  genius — but  you 
have  a  spark.  .  .  .  And  what  does  he  say  to  it,  your 
Englishman?" 

"He  never  said  anything  to  it  for  he  hadn't  looked 
at  it,  not  till  last  week,"  returned  Katherine  merrily. 
"And  then  I  sent  him  a  sketch  I  made  after  he  left  Les 
Buissons,  and  he  thinks  it's  very,  very  wonderful — and 
I  must  exhibit  it  in  the  Academy  when  I  come  to  Lon- 
don." 

"Ha!"  MacNare  gave  his  bark  of  a  laugh.  "Paint 
a  pair  of  Airdales  or  a  little  boy  in  a  lace  collar  and 
send  it  in."  Then  the  sardonic  hardness  of  his  eyes 
softened  as  they  rested  on  the  girl's  look  of  touching 
happiness. 

"Never  mind — just  so  you  do  your  dogs  well,"  he 
163 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

conceded,  "with  not  too  noble  eyes.  .  .  .  And  I'm  very 
glad  you  are  so  happy.  It's  probably  the  best  thing  in 
the  world  for  you.  He — he  looked  a  very  fine  sort." 

"Oh,  he  is  a  fine  sort,"  she  instantly  agreed,  with  the 
radiance  on  her  eyes  and  lips.  "The  very  finest  sort !" 

MacNare,  looking  at  her  with  that  dark-browed  gaze, 
so  unrevealing  of  the  stark,  human  hunger  behind  it,  felt 
again  that  sore,  beaten  feeling  which  had  crushed  him  as 
he  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  saw  her  turn  her  face 
to  that  other  man.  He  wondered  dumbly  what  he  had 
done  that  he  should  be  so  outcast  from  the  happiness 
that  fell  to  other  men  as  their  daily  lot. 

Then  swiftly  the  hard  lines  of  his  face  relaxed.  He 
gave  the  girl  one  of  his  rare  smiles. 

"And  may  you  always  continue  to  think  so,"  he  said 
in  a  voice  so  charged  with  friendly  warmth  that  Kath- 
erine  wondered,  as  she  left  the  cremerie  with  him,  fol- 
lowed by  the  totally  misapprehending  eyes  of  the  bride- 
of-a-year  who  kept  the  desk,  why  she  should  ever  have 
thought  him  indifferent  or  oblivious. 

Certainly,  after  that,  he  found  time  even  in  the  fervor 
of  his  work,  for  some  companionable  hours,  for  he  told 
himself,  with  grim  bitterness,  that  at  least  he  could  in- 
dulge himself  to  that  extent.  There  was  no  need  to  hide 
and  bury  his  head  like  an  ostrich.  Nature,  the  arch 
enemy,  had  already  found  him  out.  It  was  late  in  the 
day  for  him  to  be  saving  himself  pain. 

By  Christmas  she  would  be  gone.  He  would  never 
see  her  again.  The  future  was  utterly  a  blank.  Mean- 
while, there  was  at  least  for  him  the  sound  of  her  voice, 
and  the  light  of  her  unsuspecting  eyes. 

164 


BOOK    II 


CHAPTER    XVII 

SUNSHINE  again  after  the  weeks  of  rain,  and  with 
the  sun  there  came  a  brightening  of  spirits  and 
a  laughing  away  of  the  fears  which  had  been 
gathering  in  those  gray,  wet  days  of  flying  rumor  and 
threatening  headlines. 

At  the  Club  where  Katherine  King  had  lunched  with 
some  American  acquaintances  the  reaction  of  relief  was 
especially  vivid.  Someone  in  a  pension  had  been  told 
by  someone  in  another  pension  who  had  been  told  by 
a  sub-editor  of  a  paper — all  this  in  privacy  and  confi- 
dence, to  be  sure — that  an  absolute  arrangement  had 
been  made  by  the  conferring  Powers,  and  there  was 
to  be  no  war  at  all — except,  of  course,  in  the  un- 
happy Balkans  where  war  appeared  the  status  quo — 
and  that  everybody  could  go  on  with  their  trips 
and  get  their  checks  cashed  and  their  itineraries 
arranged. 

For  this  small  tableful  the  cloud  was  quite  dispelled. 
And  now  they  were  sure  that  it  had  never  been  a  real 
cloud,  just  a  pother  of  dust  thrown  up  by  the  scare- 
heads  and  the  jingoists  and  the  war  party.  War — an 
Eastern-European  war — was  too  absurd  to  be  contem- 

165 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

plated ;  it  was  an  anachronism,  an  obsolete  bogy.  That 
sort  of  thing  had  been  settled  by  the  Peace  Conferences. 
Moreover  the  deadliness  of  modern  inventions  had  made 
warfare  too  destructive  to  be  possible. 

Of  all  the  luncheon  party  Katherine's  relief  was 
probably  the  keenest,  for  while  she  had  never  believed 
in  this  French  war  at  all,  still  the  red  tape  surrounding 
it  had  interfered  prodigiously  with  her  plans.  For 
Jeffrey  Edgerton's  leave  had  been  postponed  till  the 
middle  of  August  and  as  that  postponement  didn't 
agree  with  the  plans  she  had  made  with  the  Whartons 
she  had  been  obliged  to  write  them  that  she  was  delayed 
and  beg  them  to  wait  for  her.  And  then  there  had 
been  the  possibility  of  another  postponement  in  the 
background.  It  seemed  very  long  since  the  enchanted 
day  at  Les  Buissons  and  even  the  dear  daily  letters  did 
not  stop  the  little  ache  of  her  hope  deferred.  But  now 
everything  was  settled,  just  as  she  had  known  it  would 
be,  and  they  could  plan  again. 

The  sunshine  was  too  glorious  to  waste,  after  those 
dull,  dark  days,  so  when  she  left  her  friends  she  started 
on  one  of  those  rambling  strolls  through  the  older 
streets  which  never  failed  to  delight  her  even  after  these 
five  months  of  Paris,  a  stroll  having  for  objective  a 
tiny  lace  shop  in  one  of  the  old  quarters. 

It  was  Saturday,  the  first  of  August.  She  looked 
back  on  that  date  afterwards  as  separated,  as  by  the 
sudden  cleavage  of  a  sword,  from  everything  which  had 
gone  before  in  her  life. 

She  walked  slowly,  lingering  in  the  Jardins  where 
the  children  were  again  at  play,  and  it  was  after  four 

166 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

when  she  came  to  her  tiny  shop  and  it  was  dark  in  the 
narrow  place. 

But  even  in  the  dimness  it  was  impossible  not  to  see 
that  the  young  woman  who  came  slowly  forward  to  wait 
upon  her  had  been  crying.  Her  face  was  swollen  and 
her  breath  came  brokenly  as  she  went  about  the  measur- 
ing of  the  lace  and  the  tying  of  the  little  parcel.  Only 
the  necessary  words  were  uttered.  Katherine  would 
have  liked  to  find  the  right  expression  of  interest  for 
the  poor  thing's  evident  trouble  but  the  shyness  of 
sympathy  and  the  fear  of  intrusion  took  her  quickly 
away. 

And  then  out  on  the  sidewalk  again,  in  the  glow  of 
the  August  sun,  she  came  upon  a  couple  clasped  in 
each  other's  arms,  the  woman  wildly  sobbing.  "Oh, 
non — non — non !"  the  poor  thing  was  gasping,  her  thin 
hands  clutching  the  man's  shoulders,  and  the  man,  a 
young  ouvrier,  in  his  blue  cotton  blouse  and  greasy 
trousers,  was  patting  her  heaving  shoulders  with  dumb 
devotion. 

Katherine  slipped  past  them  with  bent  head,  wonder- 
ing vaguely  if  some  tragedy  of  the  quarter  had  befallen, 
and  then  in  the  restaurant  just  ahead,  where  she  had 
contemplated  a  cup  of  tea  on  one  of  the  little  tables 
shining  in  the  sun,  she  saw  the  wife  of  the  proprietor 
with  her  head  on  arms  outcast  across  one  of  the  table 
tops,  and  an  unnoticed  baby  pulling  at  her  skirts. 

Just  beyond,  a  knot  of  people  were  standing,  talking 
excitedly,  hands  gesticulating,  eyes  gleaming,  the  words 
crackling  like  whips.  Beside  an  old,  one-armed  man 
Katherine  stopped. 

167 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"What  is  it,  please?    What  is  it?" 

"C'est  arrivee  .  .  .  c'est  arrivee,"  said  the  old 
man. 

"What  has  come?" 

"C'est  arrivee.  .  .  .  C'est  la  guerre." 

La  guerre — the  word  beat  meaninglessly  in  her  ears  as 
she  hurried  away,  turning  instinctively  toward  the  Ave- 
nue de  1'Opera.  War — France  was  in  war,  then?  The 
trouble  which  had  seemed  to  be  brewing  in  such  far-off 
cauldrons,  that  cry  of  Slavic  peril — what  had  that  to 
do  with  France? 

Those  rumors,  then,  those  flying  undertones  of  anx- 
iety, the  whisperings  of  the  men  about  the  cafes,  the 
gatherings  of  the  women  in  the  streets,  these  had  nob 
been  meaningless  ebullitions  of  anxiety,  of  far-fetched 
apprehension  born  of  the  terrible  memories  of  1870. 
These  people  had  known 

Her  thoughts  flew  to  Jeffrey.  Could  this  actually 
involve  England?  But  it  could  delay  his  leave  and  play 
havoc  with  their  cherished  plans.  She  told  herself  that 
was  all,  but  the  queer  breathless  excitement  in  her  was 
tightening  its  tension.  She  raced  along  the  streets 
faster  and  faster. 

Now  a  throng  blocked  the  way,  a  jostling  crowd  of 
men  of  all  sorts  and  conditions,  silk-hatted  men,  with 
side  whiskers  suggesting  the  aisle  managers  in  the  shops, 
men  with  tall  coachmen's  whips,  blue-bloused,  grimy 
men,  a  chauffeur  in  khaki,  and  a  footman  in  a  gleaming 
livery  of  silver  and  blue  and  buff,  a  wonderful  creature 
that  one  supposed  had  no  reality  except  a  waxen  pose 
upon  the  boxes  of  carriages  with  coroneted  doors.  Yet 

168 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

here  he  was  in  the  rear  of  that  crowd,  pushing,  talking, 
shoving,  his  sphinx-like  gaze  alive  and  vibrant. 

Ivatherine  plucked  at  the  sleeve  of  the  nearest  man; 
when  he  remained  oblivious  she  shook  it  vehemently. 

"What  is  it?    What  is  it?" 

He  looked  down  on  her  with  glassy  eyes.  It  was  the 
mobilization  order,  she  was  told,  and  pressing  closer 
into  the  throng,  she  caught  the  glaring  print  of  the 
huge  posters. 

ARMEE  de  TERRE  et  ARMEE  de  MER 

ORDRE 
DE  MOBILIZATION  GENERALE 

Very  quietly  and  very  soberly  she  made  her  way  out 
of  that  crowd  through  the  streets.  Over  and  over  again 
she  tried  to  tell  herself  just  what  it  was  that  was  hap- 
pening but  her  mind  refused  to  accept  the  monstrous 
thing.  A  million  men  in  arms.  A  million  men  uprooted. 
And  many  times  a  million  hearts  wrung  with  parting 
and  suspense.  .  .  . 

The  streets  were  scene  after  scene  of  parting.  Paris 
was  oblivious  of  everything  but  the  beating  of  her  own 
heart.  Everywhere  the  girl  saw  the  sudden,  unforget- 
table glimpses  of  agony,  an  old  mother  clinging  to  her 
sons,  a  man  taking  the  ribbon  from  the  neck  of  his  little 
child  to  stuff  within  his  shirt,  a  husband  comforting  a 
wife,  a  girl  stifling  her  sobs  as  her  sweetheart  left  her. 
...  A  million  men  going.  .  .  .  Everyone  between  the 
ages  of  twenty-one  and  forty-eight.  .  .  . 

169 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

At  the  American  Express  Office  and  at  Cook's  the 
Americans  were  gathering  excitably,  but  to  Katherine's 
heart,  weighted  with  sympathy  for  the  great  griefs  of 
France,  the  anxieties  of  her  compatriots  as  to  boats  and 
trains  and  money  was  not  of  great  moment.  What  did 
it  matter  if  they  were  delayed,  or  lost  a  passage  or  had 
no  money  for  a  time?  They  would  somehow  be  fed  and 
cared  for;  their  hearts  were  not  wrung  with  parting 
from  sons  and  husbands  ordered  to  meet  the  cannon  of 
the  enemy. 

Her  American  acquaintances  of  that  day's  luncheon 
party  were  in  the  throng,  their  buoyant  assurance  of 
noontime  gone,  their  ire  the  keener  against  the  reassur- 
ances of  the  sub-editor  which  had  percolated  so  cheer- 
ingly  from  pension  to  pension.  There,  also,  were  the 
two  American  art  teachers  studying  at  the  Academic, 
resolved  on  getting  out  of  this  dangerous  place  at  the 
earliest  opportunity. 

Through  the  various  notes  of  the  throng,  some  quer- 
ulous, some  anxious,  most  of  them  patiently  good- 
natured,  she  heard  one  boy's  jubilant  accents,  "Why  I 
wouldn't  have  missed  this  for  anything !  This  is  an 
experience!" 

An  experience !  Yes,  it  was  that,  even  for  him.  But 
for  the  French? 

Outside  Robert  MacNare's  door  she  found  him  talk- 
ing with  a  group  of  Frenchmen,  artists  she  recognized 
as  his  occasional  companions  at  a  cafe,  two  already  in 
uniform.  In  the  dim  hall,  in  her  cage,  Madame  Bonnet 
sat  unstirringly,  her  head  sunk  forward  on  her  shoul- 
ders. 

170 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Katherine  felt  a  fresh  pang,  remembering  the  younger 
son  Henri  was  still  doing  his  military  service.  "This 
will  mean  Henri?"  she  said,  with  diffident  sympathy. 

Madame  Bonnet  raised  her  head  slowly,  staring 
straight  at  nothing. 

"Les  deux,"  she  said  expressionlessly. 

Of  course  it  would  mean  them  both !  How  sluggishly 
her  mind  was  working.  Jean  was  not  thirty.  He  would 
be  going  to-day,  leaving  Marie  alone  upon  the  farm 
with  her  little  ones. 

It  is  only  by  individual  instances  that  the  mind  com- 
prehends a  general  disaster.  The  greatness  of  it  is  too 
great.  But  when  one  knows  that  it  is  Henri  and  Jean — 
and  Marie  who  is  left — when  it  means  the  husband  in 
the  cremerie  across  the  way  whose  little  wife  of  a  year 
is  expecting  her  baby,  when  it  means  the  only  son  of 
the  old  woman  boarding  overhead  with  them,  and  the 
tailor  down  the  street  whose  five  children  are  mother- 
less, why  then,  pang  by  pang,  the  meaning  of  pain 
comes  home. 

A  million  men.  .  .  . 

That  evening  Katherine  strolled  with  MacNare  up 
and  down  the  Boul'  Miche',  an  altered,  sober  BouP 
Miche',  where  the  students,  with  linked  arms  sang  "The 
Marseillaise,"  with  young  voices  that  shook  in  the  be- 
ginning of  their  passionate  realization  of  love  of  coun- 
try. And  everywhere  were  the  scenes  of  parting,  and 
everywhere  through  the  streets  the  incessant  rolling  of 
taxi-cabs  and  carts  and  automobiles  and  carriages  and 
fiacres,  laden  with  men  and  women  and  luggage  of  every 
12  171 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

description,  hurrying  to  and  from  every  station  in  the 
city,  men  arriving,  provincials  leaving,  foreigners  flee- 
ing, a  turmoil  of  transit. 

Sometimes  there  were  cheers  and  gay  greetings  for 
some  crowd  of  dusty  reservists  marching  by  with  haver- 
sacks over  their  shoulders  and  a  long  loaf  of  bread 
sticking  from  some  jacket  pocket;  sometimes  the  irre- 
pressible humor  of  the  people  would  be  tickled  to  smile 
at  some  self-conscious  boy  parading  with  a  pretty  girl 
in  his  fresh  regimentals,  red-trousered,  blue-coated,  his 
knapsack  and  rifle  and  tin  pans  clattering  as  he  walked, 
but  the  tears  were  too  near  the  surface  for  laughter, 
and  the  uniform  was  too  dear  to  their  hearts  for 
youth's  naive  airs  to  alter  the  symbol.  And  the  boy's 
young  pride  in  his  glory  was  touchingly  in  contrast 
with  the  future  for  which  he  was  destined.  Old  men 
and  women  cried  blessings  on  him  as  he  passed 
and  little  girls  ran  after  to  slip  a  small  flag  in  his 
hands. 

Among  the  students  many  that  Katherine  knew  were 
going,  for  only  those  of  under  twenty-one  remained. 
"You  will  be  shouting  for  us  soon,"  one  band  of  these 
youngsters  called  merrily  to  a  group  of  older  friends 
who  were  already  in  the  colors. 

Among  these  later  Katherine  saw  Etienne  de  Tresac, 
wearing  his  uniform  with  easy  distinction,  his  handsome 
face  alight  with  enthusiasm  as  he  passed  with  one  arm 
flung  about  a  comrade's  shoulders. 

He  waved  his  hand  gayly  to  her  and  she  waved  back, 
calling,  "Good  luck!"  They  were  her  first  words  to 
him  since  that  wretched  parting  in  the  studio;  indeed 

172 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

she  had  scarcely  seen  him  since  for  he  had  ceased  his 
desultory  attendance  upon  the  summer  classes. 

And  there  was  Olga,  strolling  with  girls  she  did  not 
know,  talking  eagerly  and  searching  the  faces  she 
passed  as  if  she  were  seeking  someone.  Katherine  called 
to  her  but  Olga  returned  only  that  same  indifference 
and  aloofness  which  had  marked  her  manner  since  that 
Sunday  morning.  Katherine  wondered  if  the  girl  were 
looking  for  Louis  Arnaud,  hoping  that  he  would  pass 
through  Paris  and  the  quarter  on  the  way  to  whatever 
barracks  claimed  him,  and  she,  too,  half  unconsciously, 
began  to  look  for  him  but  he  was  not  to  be  seen. 

MacNare  was  very  silent.  To  one  question  of  hers 
he  replied,  rather  contemptuously  that  he  was  not  going 
to  run  away.  He  did  not  think  that  the  Germans  would 
reach  Paris,  although  they  must  be  magnificently  ready 
or  they  would  never  have  incurred  the  war. 

"But  do  you  think — that  the  Germans  have  always; 
intended — ?"  she  began  diffidently,  feeling  her  deep  ig- 
norance of  the  real  Europe. 

He  looked  down  on  her  somberly.  "For  years  the 
guns  have  been  invented,  the  powder  made,  the  boy 
babies  encouraged  into  the  word  ere  this  day  should 
come !  Now  that  men  and  machines  are  at  a  maximum 
strength  they  judge  the  time  has  come  to  toss  a  match 
into  the  powder.  Any  match  will  do.  In  1913  it  might 
have  been  one  thing;  in  1914  the  Archduke's  murder 
will  do  as  well  as  another.  Raise  the  cry  of  Slavic  peril 
— and  march  on  to  France.  Straight  to  the  heart  of 
her,  get  Paris  by  the  throat,  make  her  buy  her  breath 
with  a  strip  of  sea  coast  opposite  England.  .  .  .  Then, 

173 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

peace,  perhaps,  for  more  machines  and  more  men  and 
more  powder — but  not  forty  years  of  it,  for  eyes  will 
be  opened — and  then  England.  .  .  .  And  then — 

Katherine  could  only  stammer,  "But — but  I  thought 
the  Germans  were  different — were " 

"The  Germans?  When  have  the  Germans  ruled  Ger- 
many? When  have  the  Schuberts  and  the  Schumanns 
and  the  Goethes  and  the  Schillers  and  the  Wagners  and 
the  Heines  been  a  political  influence?  .  .  .  The  Germans, 
individually,  are  delightful — collectively  their  very  pe- 
culiar virtues  make  them  the  finest  instrument  in  the 
world  for  Prussian  militarism  to  wield — docile,  fervent, 
sentimental,  brave.  .  .  .  Pour  them  out  in  masses,  in- 
flame them  with  a  prepared  brand  of  patriotism,  instill  a 
calculated  hatred,  fling  them  at  the  enemy — there  you 
have  your  ideal  fighting  machine.  .  .  .  God  help  those 
boys,"  he  added  under  his  breath,  his  black-browed  gaze 
on  the  marching  ranks. 

"Then — then  what  in  the  world  is  to  happen  ?" 

He  said  very  slowly,  "A  struggle  to  the  death." 

Her  eyes  clung  to  him  in  sudden  appeal.  "Will  Eng- 
land be  in  it?" 

"Who  knows?"  Then  as  if  he  knew  that  she  found 
his  answer  evasive  he  said  grimly,  "I  hope  so." 

"You  are  cruel,"  she  said  chokingly. 

"I  am  not  thinking  of  individuals.  The  hour  has 
struck  for  nations." 

The  grhn  foreboding  of  his  words  settled  like  a  weight 
on  her  heart. 

With  the  crowd  they  followed  to  the  Gare  de  1'Est 
174 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

to  see  the  men  depart.  Here  the  men  were  to  take 
trains  for  Toul,  Verdun,  or  for  whatever  barracks 
where  they  were  to  report  the  next  day.  And  their 
destination  after  that?  Who  knew? 

A  high  iron  fence  stretched  in  front  of  the  station, 
with  three  gates — three  gates  guarded  by  soldiers. 
Three  scenes  of  last  farewell  .  .  .  and  scenes  more  ter- 
rible in  their  poignancy,  their  ultimate  realization,  than 
those  the  day  had  held. 

Outside  the  fence  was  crushed  a  crowd  of  people, 
men,  women,  children,  a  crowd  that  from  the  hundreds 
leaped  to  thousands  as  more  and  more  arrived.  And 
every  instant  the  streams  of  reservists  came  through 
them,  some  arriving  in  taxis,  some  in  carts,  some  on  foot, 
most  of  them  singing,  many  cheering,  but  some  deadly 
quiet,  stoic,  their  arms  about  some  woman. 

It  made  Katherine  think  of  the  guillotine.  For  just 
one  last  minute  those  women  had  their  men,  their  sons, 
their  sweethearts,  their  husbands,  clutched  in  their  arms, 
warm  and  safe  against  their  breasts,  and  then — through 
the  iron  gate — into  the  black  oblivion  of  the  future.  .  .  . 
And  so  many  ...  so  many.  .  .  . 

What  would  happen  ?    What  would  happen  ? 

She  heard  the  sounds  of  the  women's  sobs  under  all 
the  strains  of  "The  Marseillaise";  she  could  feel  the 
breaking  of  their  hearts  under  all  the  fervor  of  sacrifice 
that  had  leaped  to  meet  the  spiritual  demand  of  their 
defense. 

"C'est  pour  la  France,"  "C'est  pour  la  patrie" — these 
were  the  words  she  heard  oftenest  on  the  lips  of  boys 
to  their  mothers,  of  husbands  to  their  wives,  and  the 

175 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

women,  too,  touched  with  this  sacrificial  flame,  echoed 
it  with  lips  that  paled  with  their  deeper  understanding 
of  what  lay  back  of  those  words.  Some  of  those  women 
remembered  1870.  Some  had  worn  black  since  that 
year.  .  .  . 

"C'est  pour  la  France,"  Katherine  heard  one  acqui- 
esce in  a  dry  whisper.  She  had  parted  with  her  husband 
and  three  sons  in  that  moment.  Alone  she  turned  and 
made  her  way  out  of  the  throng.  And  as  she  went  she 
kept  tapping  upon  her  breast  and  speaking  in  that 
husky  voice  which  was  like  the  last  dry  whisper  of  a 
consumptive,  "C'est  fini — c'est  tout  fini." 

The  individual  was  finished.  ...  It  was  only  nations 
now  that  counted. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

BY  Sunday  noon  two  facts  had  made  their  connec- 
tion for  Katherine. 

There    were    no    potatoes    at    her   little    res- 
taurant.   People  were  provisioning  for  a  siege. 

She  had  not  thought  till  then  very  particularly  of 
herself,  not  sharing  the  traveler's  contagion  for  flight. 
Indeed  she  had  declared  herself  a  resident  of  Paris,  so 
that,  having  secured  her  papers  of  identification,  she 
would  not  have  to  continue  to  report  each  morning  at 
nine  as  transients  were  to  be  required  to  do.  She  still 
intended  to  leave  for  London  upon  the  tenth,  if  she 
did  not  hear  to  the  contrary  from  Jeffrey  Edgerton, 
and  it  seemed  best  to  her  now  to  wait  where  she 
could  get  word  from  him,  and  then  accept  his  decision. 
Now  the  excitement  of  the  times  was  gaining  upon 
her. 

By  Monday  the  auto  busses  were  gone  from  the 
streets.  People  were  swarming  about  the  provision 
dealers,  carrying  or  wheeling  away  sacks  of  flour  and 
rice  and  macaroni,  and  Katherine  went  out  and  pain- 
fully lugged  home  a  heavy  supply — to  the  Surly  Man's 
amusement. 

177 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"Are  you  going  to  bake  for  the  army  ?"  he  demanded, 
wresting  the  load  from  her  arms. 

Change  was  scarce.  The  shops  were  iron-barred  and 
shuttered ;  the  streets  were  empty  of  men  and  quiet  of  all 
traffic.  In  the  gloom  of  a  chill  rain  Paris  looked  grim 
and  forbidding. 

Into  the  quiet  streets  the  newsboys  had  rushed  with 
their  damp  sheets,  "Speciale  de  la  Guerre !"  now  an- 
nouncing Germany's  ultimatum  to  Belgium.  Indigna- 
tion ran  high.  The  excitement  was  tense  but  not 
hysterical.  Later,  another  edition  told  of  the  bombard- 
ment of  Luneville. 

In  the  larger  department  stores  while  some  girls  were 
busy  putting  away  stock  the  others  were  making  Red 
Cross  supplies.  The  sight  of  these  bandages,  deftly 
rolled  by  those  busy  fingers,  was  the  first  glimpse  to 
Katherine  of  what  thing  it  was  that  Paris  was  prepar- 
ing for.  Having  sent  her  youth  and  strength  to  meet 
the  enemy  she  sat  waiting  to  receive  the  shattered  re- 
turns. 

The  next  morning  she  found  the  door  of  MacNare's 
studio  wide  open  and  narrow  cots  being  carried  in.  She 
saw  that  the  great  room  was  stripped  and  cleared,  with 
the  statues  and  marble  crowded  into  one  corner,  and  cot 
after  cot  was  standing  in  a  white,  orderly  row.  Peggy 
was  scurrying  up  and  down  the  stairs  with  bundles  in 
her  arms. 

"A  sick  man's  a-coming,"  she  whispered  excitedly  to 
Katherine,  her  eyes  big  with  the  fascination  of  novelty. 

"We  shall  sleep  on  the  top  floor — I've  given  this  for  a 
little  nursing  depot,"  said  MacNare,  and  it  was  not 

178 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

from  him,  but  from  the  nursing  sister,  a  quiet,  gray- 
haired  woman  of  Le  Croix  Rouge,  that  Katherine  learned 
that  his  private  income  was  being  given  for  its  service. 

She  felt  her  heart  contract  with  the  painful  expect- 
ancy of  those  white  beds. 

No  letter  had  come  from  Jeffrey,  and  she  doubted  if 
her  telegrams  to  him  had  reached  him.  She  felt  isolated 
and  alone,  and  a  feeling  of  fear  was  creeping  higher  and 
higher  in  her,  like  a  stealthily  rising  tide.  Everywhere 
the  talk  was  of  England.  What  would  she  do?  Day 
had  dawned  with  the  Germans  still  in  Belgium,  having 
made  no  reply  to  Great  Britain's  midnight  warning,  de- 
manding respect  for  Belgium's  neutrality,  and  all  day 
there  was  that  horrible  sense  of  waiting,  waiting.  .  .  . 
Did  the  Germans  mean  to  go  on,  to  strike  an  innocent 
country,  to  flout  their  sacred  pledges,  the  rights  of  na- 
tions? Was  that  way  to  France  so  clear  to  them  that 
they  judged  they  could  hew  through  it  and  seize  Paris 
before  Great  Britain's  arm  could  reach  them?  Did  they 
feel  themselves  strong  enough  to  overwhelm  at  once 
those  nations  that  withstood  them?  And  if  they  did 

She  read  Sir  Edward  Grey's  speech  before  the  Eng- 
lish Parliament  and  she  thrilled — but  her  thrill  died  in  a 
shudder.  There  was  a  horrible,  muffled  pounding  in  her 
heart  as  if  it  were  blindly  fleeing  from  some  unnam- 
able  apprehension.  .  .  . 

She  tried  to  tell  herself  that  it  was  a  hundred  years 
since  England  had  sent  men  to  a  European  soil,  and  that 
only  the  gravest  urgency  would  bring  them  now — but 
still  the  Germans  were  in  Belgium. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  a  letter  from  Jeffrey,  much  de- 
179 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

layed,  reached  her  already  opened,  thus  giving  mute 
evidence  of  the  activities  of  the  censor.  It  was  very 
brief  and  grave ;  he  promised  to  let  her  know  as  soon  as 
anything  was  certain  for  him. 

That  night  she  went  to  the  Boul'  Miche'  with  Mac- 
Nare  and  Peggy,  and  strolled  up  and  down  among  the 
little  groups  that  were  casting  occasional  glances  up  at 
the  sky  for  stealthily  gliding  Taubes.  Once  a  guarding 
aeroplane  winged  its  way  overhead,  the  hum  of  its 
engines  sounding  faintly,  like  a  swarm  of  far-away 
bees. 

From  out  a  brown  study  she  said  aloud,  "If  I  left  at 
once " 

MacNare  was  painfully  clairvoyant  to  the  girl's 
thoughts.  His  voice  was  full  of  rugged  understanding. 
*'I  don't  believe  you  could  see  him,"  he  said.  "He  is 
with  his  regiment  and  any  moment " 

She  echoed,  "Any  moment!" 

As  he  looked  at  her,  her  slender  figure  drooping 
slightly  as  she  walked  beside  him,  her  youthful  color  pal- 
ing under  premonitions  of  anxiety,  he  felt  a  resurgence 
of  old  anger  against  the  idiocy  of  this  scheme  of  things. 
What  infinite  waste!  With  no  great  confidence  in  the 
good  intentions  of  life  toward  himself,  he  had  uncon- 
sciously conceived  of  no  destiny  as  capable  of  treachery 
to  this  girl's  bright  trust.  And  now,  to  see  the  begin- 
ning of  fear  in  her  eyes 

"But  she  is  too  young  to  know  what  it  means,"  he 
told  himself.  "And  she  will  have  his  heroism  to 
adore.  .  .  .  He  is  one  of  life's  lucky  ones." 

He  stopped  and  bought  her  one  of  the  little  English 
180 


flags  offered  for  sale  with  those  of  France  and  Russia 
and  Belgium  and  Servia. 

Everywhere  upon  the  streets  was  the  talk  of  Eng- 
land's sending  troops  to  Belgium.  Some  rumors  de- 
clared that  they  were  already  on  the  way.  There  were 
stories  now  of  fighting  near  Liege,  and  the  women  and 
old  men  and  boys  told  each  other,  with  kindling  faces 
and  shining  eyes,  of  Belgium's  heroic  reply  to  Germany. 

Four  mornings  later  Madame  Bonnet  was  at  her  door 
with  a  blue  envelope,  and  ripping  it  open,  Katherine 
stared  blankly  at  the  French  words, 

Ayez  de  courage.     Avec  tout  mon  cceur, 

JEFFREY. 

All  telegrams  must  now  be  sent  in  French,  but  the  un- 
wonted phrases  seemed  utterly  unrelated  to  her  lover. 
It  took  a  moment  for  her  mind  to  realize  the  truth. 
"Have  courage,"  she  repeated  under  her  breath,  and 
then,  "With  all  my  heart." 

"From  the  Captain?"  madame  was  eagerly  demand- 
ing. "The  English,  mademoiselle,  they  are  in  France?" 

Katherine  turned  a  soft,  unseeing  look  to  her.  She 
spoke  without  emotion.  "Yes,  they  are  in  France.  The 
message  came  from  Havre." 

Jeffrey  was  there  with  his  men,  moving  somewhere  to- 
ward the  fighting.  .  .  . 

It  was  incredible  to  her.  If  she  could  have  seen  him 
again,  could  have  talked  with  him,  have  held  him  in  her 
arms  as  those  women  had  held  their  men,  if  they  could 
have  met  and  parted,  the  parting  would  have  been  believ- 

181 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

able,  but  this  blank — this  silence — this  slip  of  blue  paper 
with  strange,  hurried  words — 

She  could  have  held  it  a  dream  but  for  that  grinding 
pain  in  her  side,  that  sick,  drunken  lurching  of  her 
heart. 

"God  be  thanked !"  said  madame.  "The  English— 
they  keep  their  word.  Oh,  God  be  thanked  they  are 
come." 

The  sight  of  the  girl's  blanched  face  recalled  her. 

"C'est  la  guerre,"  she  repeated  to  her,  laying  a  hand 
upon  her  shoulder  in  a  comrade's  gesture.  "You  are 
one  with  us,  mademoiselle."  And  as  she  turned  away> 
her  flare  of  enthusiasm  sunken  to  the  stolidity  of  every- 
day, "This  is  war." 

Unthinkable  now  to  leave  Paris,  to  leave  the  city  for 
whose  safety  her  lover  was  fighting.  She  was  nearer  to 
him  here  than  anywhere ;  here  he  would  know  where  to 
address  her. 

So  she  wrote  long,  cheerful  letters  home,  saying  she 
was  safe  and  well  and  better  off  than  in  a  friendless  Eng- 
land, scrambling  for  steerage  in  an  overloaded  ship. 
They  were  not  to  worry.  And  she  wrote  the  Whartons, 
fearing  their  unselfish  sense  of  responsibility  might  de- 
lay them  for  her,  that  they  were  not  to  wait,  that  she 
had  friends  who  would  care  for  her. 

No  one  knew  when  mail  would  be  delivered,  but  hav- 
ing seen  her  letters  into  a  box  she  felt  she  had  done  her 
utmost  and  gave  herself  to  the  present. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

IN  those  tense  days  of  waiting,  when  the  red  rush  of 
the  invader  rolled  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  gates  of 
Paris,  Katherine  King  knew  that  incredible,  stifling 
sensation  of  one  struggling  to  break  the  gripping  bonds 
of  nightmare.  So  utterly  had  war  been  a  thing  apart 
from  the  happy  security  of  her  American  environment 
that  it  was  fantastic  and  unreal  to  be  here  in  this  city 
that  was  girding  itself  for  mortal  combat,  with  the 
rage  and  ruin  of  war  blazing  closer  and  closer,  and 
somewhere  on  that  red  line  of  defense  the  man  whose 
life  was  dearer  to  her  than  her  own. 

"Can  this  be  I?"  the  girl  thought  dumbly,  as  she 
walked  those  silent  streets,  where  the  children  ceased  to 
play,  and  waited  with  those  patient,  tragic  crowds  of 
women  and  old  men  for  the  official  communiques. 

Ah,  those  communiques !  How  infrequent  they  were 
— and  how  laconic !  And  always  the  same.  Always  the 
Germans  were  nearer,  nearer,  a  great,  oncoming,  ma- 
chine-mass, endless,  irresistible.  The  front  ranks  that 
went  down  were  like  the  vanishing  foam  on  an  incoming 
tide.  The  tide  surged  in,  mighty,  unstopping.  She 
knew  the  paralyzing  fear  of  helplessness.  She  saw  it  re- 

183 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

fleeted  in  the  faces  of  the  men  and  women  about  her, 
deepened  with  their  knowledge  of  what  helplessness  had 
meant  in  a  bitter  past. 

"It  is  the  guns,"  said  the  little  bride-of-a-year,  in  the 
cremerie,  clinging  pitifully  to  her  hands.  "They  have 
the  guns,  mademoiselle,  the  monsters  that  deal  destruc- 
tion. For  this  they  have  been  making  ready.  .  .  .  And 
our  men  are  there.  .  .  ." 

"You  must  not  cry  so,  you  must  not,"  Katherine 
whispered,  her  own  throat  choked,  her  heart  aching. 

The  little  woman  flung  back  her  head,  with  an  effort 
of  defiance.  "I  will  not,"  she  answered.  "I  will  live  for 
the  child.  And  if  it  is  a  son — a  son  whose  father  does 
not  return — then  when  he  is  a  man  I  will  put  a  gun  in  his 
hands  to  slay  the  murderers  of  his  father !" 

So  the  war  seed  was  sown,  thought  Katherine ;  so  the 
heritage  of  hate  and  enmity  brought  its  festering  fulfill- 
ment. 

"You  will  not  talk  so  when  you  have  sons  to  lose," 
said  the  old  woman  who  boarded  with  her.  "My  mother 
saw  five  go  in  1870  and  I  was  all  that  was  left  to  her. 
And  then  my  man — he  was  my  bridegroom — it  was  there 
he  got  the  wound  that  took  him  off  in  the  end.  But  for 
that  he  would  be  here  now.  .  .  .  You  will  not  talk  so 
when  you  have  lived  a  little  more." 

She  turned  feebly  to  Katherine.  "Is  there  news, 
mademoiselle  ?  I  am  not  strong  to  go  out  in  the  streets 
to-day " 

And  Katherine  went  for  them  and  searched  the  scanty 
lists  for  those  names  that  meant  everything  to  those 
women.  There  were  very  few  lists  and  those  brief  and 

184 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

incomplete,  but  by  now  the  wounded  were  being  brought 
into  the  city,  and  hurried  from  the  hospital  trains  to 
those  waiting  beds,  and  little  bands  of  women  went  from 
ward  to  ward,  waiting  patiently  to  speak  to  the  nurse, 
to  ask  if  such  an  one  were  here,  or  if  any  of  his  regiment, 
or  if  there  was  news  of  that  regiment. 

All  day  now  Katherine  made  Red  Cross  supplies,  or 
aided  where  she  could  in  the  nursing  going  on  in  Mac- 
Nare's  small  asylum.  Only  the  lightest  cases  were 
brought  there,  but  as  she  went  from  bed  to  bed,  looking 
down  on  those  rows  of  wan,  drawn  faces,  Katherine's 
heart  contracted  with  the  terror  of  deepened  under- 
standing. And  the  meaning  of  war,  the  murderous  on- 
slaught of  man  against  man,  raised  its  bloody  face  upon 
her  from  the  draping  veils  of  glory  and  of  custom. 

The  story  of  Belgium,  brought  by  flying  rumor, 
gasped  from  the  lips  of  the  first  poor  refugees,  had 
reached  the  city  and  set  the  anxious  hearts  there  afire 
with  a  passion  of  agonized  sympathy.  Eyes  were  raised 
to  the  mute  skies ;  locked  hands  were  lifted  in  despairing 
grayer.  Women  fled  to  the  churches  to  plead  at  the 
Madonna's  feet  for  pity  upon  those  helpless  ones  and 
safety  for  their  own. 

It  seemed  to  Katherine  that  the  sun  could  never  shine 
for  her  again.  That  in  this  day  of  vaunted  Christian- 
ity invaders  who  took  Christ's  name  in  prayer  could 
pour  upon  a  peaceful  countryside,  burning,  shooting, 
stabbing,  terrorizing,  meeting  the  defense  of  innocent 
burghers  with  the  brutalities  of  Huns,  with  wanton  re- 
prisals, with  wholesale  slaughter;  that  men  who  called 
themselves  Christians  could  fling  themselves  methodical- 

185 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

ly  upon  a  country  of  unoffending  neutrals  and  rend  it 
limb  from  limb  in  the  name  of  "political  necessity" ;  that 
barbaric  slogan  of  "Might  is  Right,"  filled  her  with 
shocked  and  fiery  horror. 

All  the  idealisms,  the  sugary  coating  of  civilization's 
assurances,  went  down  like  a  pack  of  cards.  .  .  .  While 
the  Kaiser  had  been  signing  his  "scraps  of  paper"  at 
the  Hague,  the  engines  for  this  destruction  were  being 
forged,  the  plans  made  for  Germany's  march  through 
the  neutrality  she  was  swearing  to  protect !  .  .  .  Prus- 
sia's place  in  the  sun!  .  .  .  Big  Business,  bludgeon- 
weaponed,  empire-crowned,  tramping  human  rights  and 
lives  underfoot  in  the  name  of  a  Fatherland !  .  .  .  .  That 
was  conquest. 

Often  the  Surly  Man,  wrung  by  the  girl's  white 
cheeks  and  questioning  eyes,  made  her  come  for  long 
walks  with  him  through  the  strange  and  silent  streets, 
emptied  of  sound  and  stir,  motorless,  trafficless,  where 
old  men  and  youths  drilled  in  little  squads  and  herds  of 
sheep  and  cattle  grazed  in  the  Bois  and  Champs  Elysees. 
Out  from  the  city  had  streamed  long  miles  of  refugees, 
women  and  children,  most  of  them,  mothers  bearing  their 
babies  to  safety,  little  lads  hurried  by  frightened  grand- 
mothers, rich  or  poor,  all  unprepared  and  needy,  they 
had  poured  out  the  gates  and  down  the  dusty  roads  be- 
yond the  sound  of  guns. 

Hushed  and  tensely  waiting,  her  heart  with  her  youth 
upon  her  battle-line,  Paris  was  beautiful  in  those  August 
days  as  never  before.  The  uncut  grass  grew  long  in  her 
gardens ;  the  red  geraniums  and  white  roses  rioted 
gorgeously  in  the  borders.  And  at  night  the  moonlight 

186 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

bathed  the  lampless  streets  in  spectral  brilliancy, 
glistening  white  upon  the  dome  of  Les  Invalides,  upon 
the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  upon  the  blunt  towers  of  Notre 
Dame  and  delicate  traceries  of  fretted  column  and 
Gothic  arch.  ...  If  Paris  was  to  die  it  would  be  in  the 
full  panoply  of  her  beauty,  in  the  splendor  of  her  ancient 
and  irrecoverable  loveliness. 

Nearer  and  nearer  the  battle-line.  On  it  came,  closer, 
closer,  with  dull  and  sullen  thunder  stealing  from  the 
horizon,  an  arrow-pointed  battering  ram  hammering 
and  hammering,  a  sweeping  tide,  surging  and  submerg- 
ing, and  then — in  a  sugar-beet  field  near  Claye,  ten  miles 
from  the  outer  fortifications  of  Paris,  the  furthest  reach- 
ing fringe  of  that  tide  was  met  and  turned.  Slowly  it 
receded,  borne  back  by  desperate  force.  .  .  . 

The  communiques  were  first  cautious,  then  explicit. 
They  told  of  places  retaken,  of  advances  made.  Now 
twenty,  now  thirty,  now  forty  miles,  that  line  of  battle 
was  pushed  back.  And  in  Paris,  the  clutch  upon  the 
heart  relaxed.  Free  breath  was  drawn  again.  Grate- 
ful eyes  shone  in  white  faces. 

That  Sunday  of  September  was  France's  day  of 
thanksgiving. 

But  all  this  time  no  word  of  Jeffrey.  No  scrap  of 
writing  came  back  from  that  unknown  place  in  the  front 
of  battle. 

She  heard  the  stories  of  the  poor,  wounded  boys  in 
the  hospitals  and  she  thought  of  him  there  in  the  days 
and  nights,  harried  and  desperate,  fighting  those  over- 
13  187 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

whelming  odds,  pushed  back,  still  stubbornly  defending, 
outnumbered  but  bitterly  resisting,  each  instant  a  chance 
in  the  hell  of  battle,  and  her  heart  would  stop  its  beat- 
ing before  those  fears  to  which  she  dared  not  give  a 
name. 

Yet  because  she  was  young  and  the  eclipse  of  personal 
disaster  was  unthinkable  she  could  draw  deeply  upon 
hope.  But  the  blackness  of  that  waiting !  .  .  .  The 
bitterness  of  knowing  nothing  ...  of  fearing  every- 
thing. .  .  .  She  lived  years  in  those  weeks,  and  in  her 
eyes  darkened  that  look  of  dumb  questioning  which  she 
pitied  in  the  women's  eyes  about  her. 

Sometimes  she  wrote  her  heart  out  to  her  mother,  only 
to  tear  the  letter  into  a  hundred  pieces.  Why  sadden 
those  dear  ones  at  homes  with  her  own  agony  of  sus- 
pense? .  .  .  It  would  shock  and  wound  them.  .  .  .  And 
any  day  now  might  bring  news.  .  .  .  Any  moment  she 
might  hear.  .  .  . 

And  no  news  was  not  the  worst.  .  .  . 

So  she  went  about  her  work,  rolling  bandages  with  a 
little  group  of  French  workers,  taking  lessons  in  nurs- 
ing from  one  :€f  many  classes  held,  spending  her  money 
in  comforts  fo,r  the  poor  boys  in  the  hospitals  and  the 
wretched  refugees  that  brought  the  misery  of  Belgium 
home  again  and  again  to  tender  hearts,  writing  brave 
letters  to  America,  begging  more  money  for  help  for 
the  homeless  ones — and  then  one  day  the  miracle  hap- 
pened, and  there  was  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth 
about  her. 

Its  precursor  was  a  tremor  of  alarm,  for  Madame 
Sonnet  came  into  her  room,  bringing  Jeanne  and  little 

188 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Thomas  with  her,  and  the  sight  of  the  children  brought 
a  fear  of  disaster,  so  many  terrible  stories  had  come  of 
slaughter  and  fire,  and  bloody  reprisals. 

Quickly  Madame  Bonnet  explained.  "No,  no,  the 
Germans  have  not  been  there.  They  were  all  about,  but, 
God  be  thanked,  the  village  was  saved.  A  wood  just 
beyond — they  could  not  get  through  that,  where  our 
soldiers  had  their  guns.  .  .  .  But  Marie  has  sent  them. 
The  train  came  in  this  morning.  She  feels  it  safer  in. 
case  anything  should  happen  to  her — she  is  not  well,  you 
understand,  and  her  time  is  come.  .  .  .  See,  the  little 
innocents- — they  are  big-eyed  with  the  war.  The 
soldiers  took  the  pigs,  yes,  our  soldiers — they  have 
stomachs,  the  poor  lads.  Does  Marie  think  they  win 
battles  upon  emptiness?" 

"And  news — have  you  news  of  your  boys  ?"  Katherine 
asked  quickly. 

"Of  Jean,  yes.  He  is  one  of  those  stationed  in  the 
wood  beyond  the  village.  One  arm  was  out,  nothing  to 
make  a  fuss  about  you  understand.  A  scratch,  when  the 
Boches  tried  to  come  through  the  wood  at  night." 
Madame  was  excited;  her  old  liveliness  reanimated  her 
face,  which  had  been  settling  into  lines  of  mask-like 
rigidity.  "But  it  is  not  of  my  boys  that  mademoiselle 
is  thinking — no?" 

A  look  of  sly  pleasure  came  in  the  old  woman's  eyes 
and  she  pushed  little  Jeanne  toward  the  girl.  "Show  the 
mademoiselle  what  is  about  thy  neck." 

Obediently  the  child  began  to  tug  at  a  discolored  rib- 
bon ;  presently  a  little  leather  case  came  outside  her 
collar  band. 

189 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"Voila,  mademoiselle,"  she  said  shyly,  putting  it  in 
Katherine's  hand. 

But  Madame  Bonnet  could  contain  herself  no  longer. 

"From  Monsieur  le  Capitaine !"  she  exploded.  "From 
the  Captain  of  mademoiselle !  In  truth !  In  truth !  He 
came  riding  through  the  wood — he  came  to  the  farm, 
and  learning  that  the  children  were  about  to  start  he 
declared  that  Jeanne  was  safer  than  the  post !" 

Madame  chuckled  delightedly,  her  keys  jingling  with 
their  old  fervor.  "Read,  mademoiselle,"  she  exhorted, 
as  if  Katherine  were  not  already  lost  in  those  few  hur- 
ried lines.  "Read,  and  tell  me  what  he  says !  .  .  .  All 
is  well,  yes?" 

Thumb-grimed  and  creased,  the  little  square  of  pa- 
per lay  in  Katherine's  hand. 

MY  DEAREST  KATHERINE: 

Fancy  writing  you  at  the  old  f  arm  in  such  times ! 
We  have  had  the  devil's  own  scratch  of  it,  but  now 
we're  getting  a  bit  of  our  own  back.  It's  nasty 
business — to  see  your  comrades  going — but  it's  for 
the  right,  and  we're  in  it  to  the  finish.  You  mustn't 
worry  about  me,  darling,  even  if  you  don't  hear. 
With  your  love  all  mine  there  isn't  a  bullet  that 
can  stop  me.  Write  me  here;  we'll  stick  a  bit  till 
we  get  forward. 

Your 

JEFFREY. 

As  an  afterthought  he  scribbled  that  he  was  perfect- 
ly well  though  starving,  and  Marie  had  produced  a  fine 
hen  for  him. 

190 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Little  Jeanne  supplied  a  thousand  eager  details,  when 
once  her  shyness  was  overcome.  The  Captain  had  taken 
her  up  on  his  big  horse ;  he  had  laughed  and  kissed  her 
and  told  her,  Oh,  yes,  she  was  not  to  forget,  that  this 
kiss  was  for  Mademoiselle  Katherine.  And  the  child 
reached  forward  and  clasped  her  arms  about  Katherine's 
neck. 

"He  held  me  like  this,  like  this,"  she  explained. 

Madame  clapped  her  hands  eagerly.  She  forgot  that 
she  had  cherished  a  grievance  against  this  Captain  who 
had  so  utterly  overthrown  those  unselfish  hopes  for  Mac- 
Nare  and  little  Peggy ;  she  forgot  that  she  had  scarcely 
glimpsed  his  features  that  night  when  he  had  come  in- 
quiring for  Katherine,  and  she  broke  into  fervent 
praises  of  his  handsome  appearance  and  his  valor.  She 
beamed  upon  that  picture  of  his  on  the  girl's  table.  "A 
man  in  a  thousand — a  man  of  courage  and  of 
heart !  .  .  .  But  mademoiselle,"  she  added  naively,  "is 
there  any  word  of  Henri?  Has  the  Captain  heard?" 

And  at  Katherine's  gesture  of  pitying  negation,  "Of 
course  he  would  not  hear,  among  so  many,"  she  returned 
with  a  semblance  of  briskness.  "But  I  think  of  my 
chickens,  of  course !  ...  It  is  so  long  .  .  .  but  silence 
is  better  than  the  word  of  death.  That  poor  old  mother 
over  the  cremerie !  She  heard  last  night.  ...  It  was  at 
Mons,  during  that  long  retreat.  .  .  .  They  sent  her  a 
silver  ring  of  his.  She  says  nothing.  .  .  .  But  the  wife 
there  told  me  that  she  had  laid  upon  her  bed  some  little 
things  she  had  saved,  a  baby  shoe  of  his,  you  under- 
stand, and  a  little  dress  and  a  card  of  his  first  letters 
and  sits  there  looking  at  them." 

191 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Madame  Bonnet  wiped  her  eyes.  "It  is  for  France,  of 
course,  but  it  is  very  hard.  .  .  .  Why  should  such 
things  be,  mademoiselle?" 

She  added,  restlessly,  "It  is  hard  on  a  mother  not  to 
smooth  her  son's  brow  in  his  last  moments,  not  to  look 
into  his  face.  .  .  .  But  there  is  no  help  for  it.  .  .  ." 

The  children,  growing  more  familiar  in  the  room,  re- 
called her. 

"Jeanne !  That  is  the  mademoiselle's  cushion — do  not 
let  thy  little  brother  sprawl  upon  it  like  that !  Thank 
the  mademoiselle  for  the  chocolate.  .  .  .  That  is  bet- 
ter. ...  I  must  take  these  little  ones  to  a  neighbor," 
she  added,  "for  I  have  much  to  do  if  I  am  to  leave  to- 
night. Would  mademoiselle  prefer  to  confide  a  letter 
to  me  sooner  than  to  the  army  post?  If  the  Captain 
Edgerton  is  stationed  there  I  shall  get  it  to  him  with 
certainty." 

"But  where  are  you  going?"  Katherine  demanded 
quickly. 

"To  Les  Buissons,  of  course.  My  daughter  needs 
me.  .  .  .  Besides,  it  is  my  home  and  my  heart  has  been 
heavy  with  fears  for  it.  I  shall  go  to-night."  She  nod- 
ded her  head  slowly,  with  the  air  of  a  Sibyl  confirming  a 
decision. 

"But  the  permits — the  passes ?" 

"There  is  a  train  to-night,"  said  madame,  and  Kath- 
erine saw  that  she  was  formulating  a  plan  already  ma- 
tured. "I  shall  obtain  a  permit  if  I  must  have  one — in 
truth  I  am  but  returning  to  my  home.  .  .  .  And  if 
mademoiselle  will  make  ready  her  letter " 

"My  letter?"  Impetuously  Katherine  turned  upon 
192 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

her,  her  face  shining,  a  great  hope  dancing  in  her  eyes 
like  a  blown  flame.  "Myself!" 

And  as  the  Frenchwoman  opened  her  lips,  "Surely  if 
I  go  at  once  I  must  find  him!  He  said  to  write  him 
there.  Anyway  I  would  be  near — if  he  should  be 
hurt.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  could  make  my  way  to  him.  Dear 
Madame  Bonnet,  you  get  me  a  permit,  if  I  must  have  it, 
or  let  me  just  slip  along  with  you.  Help  me.  ...  I 
must  go.  ...  I  know  I  shall  find  him." 

And  then,  trying  to  speak  more  calmly  and  reason- 
ably, "Since  they  are  running  trains  for  the  refugees 
to  return  to  their  homes,  surely  it  is  not  so  difficult  to 
let  me  go  on  one  of  them?" 

"It  is  not  so  easy."    Madame  eyed  her  doubtfully. 

No,  Katherine  knew  that  it  was  not  so  easy.  She 
knew  that  newspaper  correspondents  were  mewed  up  in 
Paris,  cooling  their  heels  in  much-to-be-regretted  but 
unavoidable  delays ;  she  knew  that  when  their  military 
passes  were  at  last  made  out  many  started  for  the  front 
in  their  expensively  acquired  motors  only  to  meet  with 
strange  difficulties  over  papers,  with  polite  deten- 
tions. .  .  .  No,  it  was  not  so  easy.  France  was  not 
baring  her  defenses  and  her  stories  for  every  writer 
to  rush  to  print.  The  censorship  was  unimaginably 
strict. 

And  in  a  country  constantly  betrayed  by  spies,  with 
treachery  slipping  through  every  avenue  of  life,  the 
mere  presence  of  a  foreigner  in  an  unwonted  place  was 
suspicious  in  itself.  Many  of  the  Americans  who  still 
remained  in  Paris,  and  even  English  visitors,  were  sub- 
jected to  constant  surveillance,  and  she  herself  had  often 

193 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

been  made  aware  that  her  simple  days  were  not  un- 
noticed. 

Once  madame  humorously  reported  to  her  a  contro- 
versy between  herself  and  a  questioning  agent. 

"I  told  him,"  madame  had  reported,  "that  you  were 
betrothed  to  an  English  captain  at  the  front,  and  the 
wretch  replied  that  any  German  would  betroth  herself  to 
any  number  of  captains  to  obtain  a  shred  of  informa- 
tion. .  .  .  But  I  took  him  down  your  letter  from  home, 
telling  of  the  money  coming  for  the  refugees,"  madame 
concluded  triumphantly,  "and  that  settled  his  imagina- 
tion. .  .  .  The  good  God  knows  they  must  have  a  little 
reason  in  their  suspicions." 

Reflecting  upon  this  vanished  letter  from  her  desk, 
Katherine  perceived  that  life  in  France  now  must  be  an 
open  book.  But  in  no  way  had  she  been  annoyed.  Per- 
haps Madame  Bonnet's  allegiance,  perhaps  the  friend- 
ship of  Robert  MacNare  had  removed  her  from  suspi- 
cion. 

Now  she  gave  no  thought  to  the  difficulties,  the  pos- 
sible dangers.  She  was  on  fire  with  the  knowledge  that 
the  fortunes  of  war  had  brought  Edgerton  to  Les  Buis- 
sons,  of  all  dear  places,  and  that  he  was  actually  within 
reach.  If  it  were  humanly  possible  she  was  going  to 
him. 

And  so  she  stormed  Madame  Bonnet's  sympathies  and 
affections,  and  that  good  woman  surrendered,  not  at 
discretion,  but  with  an  enthusiasm  that  entered  whole- 
heartedly into  the  plan. 

"But  you  may  have  to  be  my  cousin,"  she  declared, 
eyeing  Katherine  with  an  air  of  humorous  misgiving. 

194 


THE   SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"My  cousin,  whose  grandfather  went  to  America.  .  .  . 
I  had  such  cousins — or  my  mother  did.  We  have  lost 
track  of  them.  .  .  .  But  if  you  are  to  come  with  me  put 
on  your  hat — no,  not  that  one,  you  are  too  chic,  child, 
and  come  and  say  nothing.  We  shall  see  what  we  shall 
see." 


CHAPTER    XX 

IT  was  not  humanly  possible  that  everyone  in  that 
station  had  passes !     Katherine  eyed  the  throng 
with  hopeful  reassurance,  as  she  edged  her  way 
through  it  after  Madame  Bonnet's  bulky  person.     Her 
American  passport,  and  papers  of  identification  were 
tucked  safely  away  within  her  blouse,  in  case  of  some 
serious  difficulty  arising,  but  for  the  present  she  trusted 
wholly  to  madame's  protection. 

And  it  had  proved  as  simple  as  addition.  It  had  been 
merely  a  matter  of  getting  to  the  station,  of  finding 
when  a  train  left  for  Les  Buissons,  of  buying  the  tickets 
and  waiting  until  the  train  actually  left. 

The  pair  of  them  were  an  unnoticed  part  of  that 
jostling  crowd  of  refugees,  returning  to  the  homes 
which  they  had  left  through  the  fear  or  the  fact  of  Ger- 
man occupation,  vigorous  women  clutching  babies  and 
bundles  and  birdcages,  middle-aged  men  in  peasant 
smocks,  some  of  them,  some  of  them  in  their  Sunday 
best,  by  way  of  carrying  it,  and  girls  and  boys  with 
arms  piled  with  indiscriminate  household  goods,  most 
of  their  faces  wreathed  in  smiles  at  this  return  to  their 
acres. 

196 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

But  there  were  some  who  were  going  back  to  villages 
through  which  the  Germans  had  actually  passed,  once 
in  the  rush  of  their  advance  and  once  in  the  bitterness 
of  their  retreat,  and  these  were  troubled,  and  apprehen- 
sive of  what  might  lie  before  them.  Here  the  women 
talked  of  their  homes  and  household  supplies  and  the 
men  and  boys  of  the  crops  and  the  hayricks. 

Into  a  train  already  crammed  beyond  all  hope  of  com- 
fort, Katherine  followed  Madame  Bonnet,  and  found) 
wedged  places  among  thirteen  others  in  a  compartment 
intended  for  eight.  Nor  was  their  number  limited  to  the 
two-legged.  One  little  youngster,  in  an  incredibly  dirty 
dress,  sat  at  her  grandmother's  feet,  repeatedly  envelop- 
ing a  restless  kid  in  a  stout  shawl  which  was  also 
wrapped  about  her  own  head,  so  that  the  child's  head 
kept  bobbing  like  a  mandarin's  with  the  little  kid's 
restless  efforts  to  escape. 

An  infirmiere  major  and  her  five  nurses,  one  of  the 
many  flying  corps  sent  out  by  the  Union  des  Femmes 
de  France,  were  in  the  compartment,  and  Katherine 
watched  the  clear-eyed  women  in  their  neat  uniforms 
and  official  cloaks  with  eyes  of  devoted  respect.  She 
wished  that  she  could  go  as  they  were  going  to  bring 
healing  to  those  wounded  men.  Often  she  had  thought 
of  volunteering,  trusting  to  her  quickness  in  the  courses 
of  instruction,  already  undertaken,  added  to  the  expe- 
rience she  was  gaining  in  assisting  the  nurses  in  Mac- 
Nare's  tiny  hospital,  but  the  fear  of  being  under  orders 
and  away  from  communication  and  the  chance  of  word 
from  Jeffrey  had  held  her  back.  And  there  had  been 
plenty  for  her  to  do  in  unofficial  ways.  Now  she  thought 

197 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

that  if  the  war  lasted,  and  Jeffrey  wished  her  to,  she 
would  try  to  get  taken  on  by  the  Red  Cross — if  only 
to  scrub  floors  and  wash  clothes  until  she  could  take 
responsibility.  And  washing  and  making  clean  were  no 
small  part  of  nursing  anyway ! 

She  would  have  liked  to  talk  with  the  nurses,  in  es- 
pecial with  one  slender  woman  whose  eyes  had  met  hers 
in  a  friendly  way,  but  she  shrank  from  drawing  official 
attention  to  herself  and  devoted  herself  to  occupying  as 
little  space  as  possible  in  order  to  give  them  more  for 
their  rest.  Most  of  the  time  she  stood  out  in  the 
crowded  corridor,  leaning  against  the  barred  glass  win- 
dow, looking  into  the  darkening  night.  As  long  as  it 
was  light  she  could  see  bands  of  refugees  returning  to 
the  places  from  which  the  threat  of  invasion  seemed 
averted,  many  more  by  far  than  those  who  had  come  to 
Paris  by  train,  a  broken  procession  of  people  driving 
goats  and  sheep  and  cows  and  carrying  hens  and  geese 
and  household  pets  among  their  other  bundles.  Some- 
times a  cart  would  be  so  loaded  that  a  man  would  be 
glimpsed  tugging  away  with  the  ox  or  decrepit  horse. 
These  people  seemed  going  north,  to  the  villages  be- 
yond Les  Buissons,  where  the  Germans  had  actually 
penetrated.  They  were  marching  now  with  hope  and 
courage,  vastly  different  from  the  despair  which  sent 
them  streaming. 

It  grew  dusk  and  the  October  haze  veiled  the  land- 
scape ;  then  night  came  on  rapidly.  Now  the  train  was 
rumbling  through  a  darkness  punctuated  by  occasional 
brief  flares  of  bonfires  against  which  men's  figures  were 
silhouetted. 

198 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

<JThe  soldiers  are  roasting  thy  cow,"  one  boy  said 
roguishly  to  a  neighbor  as  they  passed  such  a  fire  just 
before  the  village  which  was  their  destination. 

The  train  was  stopping  frequently,  with  racking 
jerks,  and  a  guard  would  often  put  his  head  in  the 
door,  eyeing  the  occupants,  but  a  glimpse  of  the  nurses 
seemed  to  allay  all  suspicion.  And  when  at  last,  after 
delays  interminable  to  Katherine's  eager  impatience, 
they  came  to  Les  Buissons,  now  the  end  of  the  railroad, 
for  on  the  German's  advance  the  tracks  beyond  had 
been  torn  up,  and  the  nurses  gathered  their  satchels, 
Katherine  knew  a  mingled  motive  in  the  quickness  with 
which  she  volunteered  to  carry  the  bag  of  the  little 
slender  lady  who  had  so  roused  her  interest. 

But  she  did  not  need  to  attach  herself  to  the  gray- 
cloaked  group  to  avoid  suspicion,  for  the  very  respon- 
sible young  soldier  who  was  peering  determinedly  at 
each  arrival  with  the  manner  of  one  upon  whose  thor- 
oughness empires  rested  and  thrones  balanced  proved 
well  known  to  Madame  Bonnet  and  she  literally  fell 
upon  him  with  a  storm  of  questions.  A  few  moments 
later,  leaving  the  platform,  she  was  venting  her  disgust 
to  Katherine. 

"As  if  his  red  breeches  must  make  him  uncivil!  .  .  . 
I,  that  shook  the  breath  of  life  into  his  lungs  when  he 
was  coughing  his  way  out  of  this  world  ere  he  had  been 
a  minute  in  it!  ...  I,  that  nursed  his  mother!  .  .  . 
Not  to  be  able  to  answer  my  questions !  He  might  have 
told  me  about  Marie." 

Still  grumbling  at  the  village  boy's  importance  she 
hurried  forward  into  the  town  square  where  the  embers 

199 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

of  a  fire  were  glowing  on  the  cobblestones,  surrounded 
by  half  a  hundred  dark,  sprawling  figures. 

"They  will  get  a  bomb  dropped  on  them  for  their 
comfort,"  grumbled  madame,  still- ruffled.  "But  I  sup- 
pose they  would  rather  ruin  the  town  than  endure  chil- 
blains." 

A  few  lights  flickered  in  the  windows  of  the  inn  and 
in  the  small  shops  where  soldiers  were  quartered,  and 
from  some  open  windows  a  sound  of  voices  and  young 
laughter  drifted  down.  Horses  were  stabled  all  about, 
and  the  reek  of  sweaty  skins  and  leather,  the  unwashed 
odors  of  battling  men,  poured  to  them  across  the  little 
square,  but  faintly  purified  by  the  acrid  smell  of  the 
burnt  wood  and  autumn  leaves. 

Dull  and  muffled,  like  thunder  on  the  horizon,  there 
was  sounding  the  rumble  of  far-away  guns  in  some 
rhythmic  artillery  duel  of  the  night. 

From  one  of  the  soldiers  in  the  square,  a  young 
man  of  the  neighborhood,  the  two  women  found  that 
the  firing  line  was  far  beyond  the  town,  and  that  these 
soldiers  had  been  sent  back  for  a  snatch  at  rest  after 
their  long  hardships..  They  would  be  sent  forward 
again  at  any  moment  if  the  enemy  attacked,  but  there 
was  hope  of  reinforcements  from  the  south.  Yes,  the 
English  were  there — somewhere  out  beyond  the  town, 
but  where  the  young  fellow  could  not  say.  They  had 
better  see  the  officers — and  the  mayor.  Certainly  they 
would  not  be  allowed  to  move  near  the  actual  line  of 
battle  without  permits  and  papers. 

"We  will  go  to  my  home,"  said  madame,  a  little 
indignant  at  this  red  tape  on  her  native  heath. 

200 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

But  the  soldier  was  not  sure  whether  she  would  get 
there.  There  would  be  sentries.  He  had  an  idea  that 
the  second  line  of  trenches,  for  a  possible  retreat,  ran 
somewhere  near  the  Bonnet  place,  and  his  advice  to 
these  two  women  who  had  the  bad  sense  to  leave  Paris 
in  such  times  was  to  find  the  mayor  or  the  proper  offi- 
cials. 

He  was  asleep  and  snoring  before  madame  could 
make  up  her  mind  as  to  whether  it  would  be  best  to 
take  the  advice  or  not. 

However  the  mayor  was  not  inaccessible.  He  was  a 
second  cousin  of  madame's  upon  her  mother's  side,  and 
a  big,  brawny,  white-haired  giant  of  a  man.  They 
found  him  at  the  new  inn,  arranging  for  the  temporary 
accommodation  of  the  corps  of  nurses  and  upon  ma- 
dame's  appearance  he  welcomed  her  delightedly,  and  re- 
assured her  as  to  Jean's  safety  and  Marie's.  And  upon 
being  informed  of  Katherine's  desire  to  discover  the  lo- 
cation of  the th  Guards,  he  led  them  promptly,  pro- 
testing that  it  was  no  difficulty,  that  his  night  was  not 
for  sleep  but  for  his  village,  to  a  room  where  the 
French  officers  could  direct  them. 

And  Katherine  found  herself  in  a  tiny  room  thick 
with  tobacco  loke,  confronting  four  unknown  young 
Frenchmen  who  had  risen  from  a  table  of  cards,  while 
Madame  Bonnet  poured  out  not  only  an  appeal  for  in- 
formation but  an  explicit  statement  of  the  young  Eng- 
lish captain's  engagement  and  the  venerable  mayor  ut- 
tered continuous  assurances  as  to  madame's  utter  loy- 
alty and  reliability.  They  were  amused  but  sympa- 
thetic, those  four  young  men,  and  eyeing  the  American 

201 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

girl's  embarrassed  color  and  eager  eyes  they  proceeded 
to  felicitate  the  unknown  Captain.  The  English  had 
been  in  the  town,  they  told  her,  but  now  they  occupied 
the  edge  of  woods  just  beyond  it,  and  the  — th  Guards, 
for  whom  she  was  inquiring,  were  stationed  in  the  old 
chateau  to  the  north. 

"Then — if  I  sent  a  messenger — ?"  Katherine  began, 
feeling  her  own  affairs  very  small  indeed  in  the  midst  of 
this  war's  concerns,  but  resolved  just  as  stubbornly 
upon  a  glimpse  of  Jeffrey. 

One  of  the  unshaven  young  men  made  her  a  merry 
bow  and  tapped  himself  upon  the  chest. 

"I,  myself,  will  use  the  legs  of  wire  for  you,"  he  de- 
clared. "Mademoiselle  must  not  forget  the  invention  of 
the  telephone — although  now  it  is  denied  to  all  but  the 
military."  Taking  her  name  and  her  address  at  the 
farm  and  the  Captain's  name  and  company  he  bade  her 
rest  assured  that  the  Englishman  would  receive  a  mes- 
sage and  would  come  to  her — if  the  confounded  Boches 
did  not  attack  again. 

"They  give  us  no  rest,  those  fellows !"  he  declared 
cheerily. 

"Monsieur  '1'Officier  should  take  it  when  he  can," 
madame  observed  maternally. 

The  young  fellow  smiled  at  her  with  that  touch  of 
charming  democracy  which  makes  the  French  the  most 
fraternal  of  aristocrats. 

"When  life  k  so  short — !"  he  said  gayly.  "One 
must  laugh  when  one  can."  Then  as  if  that  called  too 
much  attention  to  the  real  aspect  of  affairs  he  observed 
that  doubtless  a  divine  destiny  had  intended  him  to 

202 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

await  their  arrival  and  he  gave  them  the  password, 
without  which  they  could  not  have  passed  the  sentry  on 
the  way  to  the  farm,  and  waved  away  their  volume  of 
united  thanks. 

So,  taking  leave  of  the  friendly  officers  and  the  kindly 
mayor,  the  two  women  set  out,  trudging  through  the 
darkness  along  the  old  highway  to  the  farm,  where  an 
amazed  Marie,  with  a  neighbor  woman  for  company 
and  possible  aid,  welcomed  them  with  surprised  and 
touching  joy,  overlaid  with  anxiety. 

"Thou  shouldst  not  have  come — not  when  the  Ger- 
mans are  so  near.  Thou  dost  not  know  what  happened 
at  Armande  where  they  stayed  for  two  days.  And " 

"It  was  my  home  before  it  was  thine,"  returned  ma- 
dame  tranquilly,  "and  these  many  days  I  have  wished 
myself  within  it.  ...  If  the  Germans  come  an  old 
woman  is  better  for  safety  than  a  young  one,  but  they 
are  not  coming  this  way  again.  We  shall  see  no  more 
of  their  faces.  .  .  .  Moreover  Jean  is  my  son  as  well 
as  thy  husband  and  it  is  in  my  heart  to  behold  him  again 
while  he  is  near.  .  .  .  Also  I  love  thee  and  thou  needest 
me.  .  .  .  Did  they  eat  all  the  pigs?  And  what  of  the 
cows  ?" 

That  night  Katherine  lay  again  in  the  little  upstairs 
room  which  brought  back  to  her  so  vividly  the  hours  of 
her  betrothal  night.  It  seemed  to  her  to  be  years  ago, 
and  she  remembered  the  beauty  of  that  June  night  and 
the  radiant  happiness  of  her  heart  as  touching  frag- 
ments of  some  old  dream.  .  .  .  And  then  again  it  was 
the  dream  which  was  real  and  this  harassed  life  with 
14  203 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

its  knife-edge  of  uncertainty  seemed  the  unreal  dream. 
And  most  unreal  of  all  to  be  in  this  soldier-invested 
countryside,  listening  to  the  steady  roar  of  distant 
guns  and  straining  her  ears  for  the  sound  of  hoofs  upon 
the  road. 

She  told  herself  that  it  was  impossible  that  he  could 
come  so  soon.  He  was  distant  at  the  chateau;  he  had 
orders  to  fulfill,  undoubtedly,  or  he  was  taking  a  much- 
needed  sleep.  He  might  not  be  able  to  see  her  all  the 
next  day.  .  .  .  She  resolved  to  set  out  upon  that 
chateau  road  as  soon  as  it  was  light,  risking  the  sen- 
tries and  detention.  .  .  .  She  must  get  to  him ;  he  could 
not  come  to  her.  Yet,  though  common-sense  reasoned 
thus  and  she  acceded  she  did  not  sleep  and  she  did  not 
wholly  undress,  but  lay  there  upon  the  bed,  her  case- 
ment windows  wide  to  the  cool  air,  her  senses  quickened 
to  all  the  noises  of  the  night. 

When  after  midnight  she  heard  the  clatter  of  hoofs 
drawing  nearer  and  nearer — just  as  some  deep  unrea- 
soning presentiment  in  her  had  told  her  that  she  would 
— she  would  not  admit  to  herself  that  it  was  Jeffrey, 
withholding  her  heart  from  the  joy  of  a  hope  whose  re- 
versal would  betray  it  too  utterly.  .  .  .  Not  even  when 
the  hoofs  turned  into  the  farm  road,  when  they  slack- 
ened at  the  gate,  would  she  say  more  than,  "He  has  sent 
a  letter — a  messenger." 

But  kneeling  at  her  window,  searching  the  shadowy 
gloom  for  the  horseman,  she  called,  "Jeffrey?" 

And  the  call  came  back,  clear  and  near,  ringing  with 
gladness,  "Katherine !" 

But  it  was  not  real,  no,  not  even  when  she  was  down 
204- 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

the  stairs  and  out  the  door  and  gripped  in  his  eager 
arms.  It  was  a  dream,  a  wonderful  dream,  from  which 
she  would  surely  waken.  .  .  .  But,  Oh,  the  strength  of 
those  arms  about  her  again  after  the  weeks  of  fear,  the 
delight  of  his  kisses  and  his  dear  cheek  again  on  hers ! 

Then  she  held  him  off  to  look  at  him  through  the 
faint  starlight.  .  .  .  He  was  thinner  and  older  and 
grimmer  and  his  skin  was  a  red-brown  except  where  the 
freshly  shaven  cheeks  told  of  a  once-protecting  beard. 
There  was  a  flesh-wound  healing  across  his  left  cheek- 
bone which  her  fingers  touched  with  light,  exploring 
pity. 

"Sound  as  a  nut,"  he  declared  to  her  quick  rush  of 
anxious  question,  "and  tough  as — as  a  bullet,  darling! 
.  .  .  But,  sweetheart,  is  it  really  you?" 

He  held  her  close  as  if  he  would  never  let  her  go,  and 
her  arms  reached  and  clung  about  his  neck.  In  that 
long  kiss  of  young  love  their  spirits  seemed  to  breathe 
and  mingle.  .  .  .  She  knew  a  speechless  happiness  that 
was  beyond  all  remembrance  of  the  past,  beyond  all 
dread  of  the  future. 

But  through  his  eager  gladness  his  anxiety  cut 
quickly. 

"How  did  you  come?  They  should  not  have  let  you. 
The  Germans  are  so  near.  .  .  .  They  have  been  holding 
their  own  too  well  and  stiffening  the  line — we're  afraid 
of  another  attack.  You  must  get  away  at  once,  dear,  at 
once !" 

"The  nurses  are  in  town — I  can  stay  and  help  them," 
eho  protested,  "and  to  be  near  you — 

"Near  me  this  moment  only — to-morrow  I  may  be 
205 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

twenty  miles  away.  This  is  our  first  bit  of  rest  and  it 
won't  be  long — it's  just  drawing  breath  to  get  on  with. 
.  .  .  You  don't  know  what  this  is  like.  You  must  get 
out  of  it.  I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  you  as  near." 

Over  his  young  face  she  saw  fresh-graved  lines  that 
aged  his  merry  youth.  "You  don't  know  what  we've 
seen,"  he  said  fiercely,  "up  there — in  Belgium.  .  .  . 
The  women — the  civilians — Oh,  there  are  no  words  for 
that  hell.  .  .  .  You  go  back.  I  won't  have  you  any- 
where near.  For  one  decent  man  there  are  a  hundred 
savages.  I've  seen  things  that — that 

He  broke  off,  breathing  heavily.  "But,  by  God,  Bel- 
gium won't  be  their  slaughter-house  forever !  We're  in 
this  to  the  finish." 

"Oh,  Jeffrey,  you'll  be — careful?" 

The  futility  of  that  womanish  plea  was  painfully  clear 
to  her  even  as  she  cried  it. 

Wryly  he  smiled  and  answered  lightly,  "You  must  tell 
that  to  the  Boches,  dear!  Their  'Jack  Johnsons'  are 
so  deuced  promiscuous !" 

Then  his  voice  grew  earnest  and  reassuring.  "You 
mustn't  worry,  Katherine  girl.  With  your  love  to  guard 
me  there  cannot  anything  happen !  Somehow  I'm  sure. 
.  .  .  You  don't  know  how  I've  thought  of  you — even 
through  the  fight  back  there.  And  I  thought  of  all 
our  plans  for  my  leave " 

"If  I  could  only  have  had  a  line,"  she  whispered. 
"You  don't  know  what  it  was — that  waiting." 

"I  did  write — didn't  a  thing  reach  you?  I  scrawled 
twice — one  note  I  sent  back  after  Mons  by  a  stretcher- 
bearer  who  was  going  to  a  base-hospital,  I  remember. 

206 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Poor  chap  must  have  lost  it — or  been  hit.  But  even  if 
you  don't  hear  you're  not  to  worry.  These  aren't  good 
postage  days." 

"Worry !"  she  said  chokingly,  her  arms  tightening. 

"I'll  get  through,  all  right,"  he  told  her,  looking 
down  into  her  upturned  face  and  stroking  back  the 
fluttering  hair  from  her  brow.  "You'll  see,  darling! 
And  all  our  dreams  will  come  true  for  us — every  one." 

"You're  all  my  life,"  she  whispered. 

"And  you  mine." 

All  too  swiftly  the  minutes  passed,  sometimes  in  mur- 
mured speech,  oftener  in  silence.  The  pain  of  parting 
pressed  quickly  upon  the  gladness  of  meeting,  and  at 
last,  like  a  knife  in  her  heart,  came  his  reluctant  words. 
It  did  not  seem  that  he  had  been  there  any  time,  and  yet 
the  sky  was  lightening  to  that  pale  gauzy  gray  in  which 
stars  fitfully  withdraw. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said  at  last,  his  arms  holding  her  close 
for  one  last  clasp. 

She  raised  a  tear-wet  face.  She  did  not  know  that 
she  had  been  crying,  so  quietly  those  tears  had  over- 
flowed. A  moment  more  they  had  together  while  he 
tugged  at  a  saddle-strap  and  she  stroked  the  muzzle 
of  his  friendly  horse,  then  a  last  kiss  and  he  was  in  the 
(saddle  and  off,  and  she  was  standing  in  the  road  for  her 
heart  to  catch  and  hold  the  last  impression  of  the  shad- 
owy, galloping  figure. 

"My  dear  love,"  she  was  saying  chokingly  to  herself. 
"My  dear,  dear  love." 

How  loud  those  guns  were  sounding !  Roaring,  roar- 
ing. .  .  . 

207 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SHE  seemed  scarcely  to  have  fallen  asleep  before 
she  awoke  to  a  world  of  noise.  The  air  was  racked 
with  dull,  throbbing  detonations  that  came  at 
rhythmic  intervals,  and  shaken  with  sudden,  irregular, 
sharper  shocks. 

The  guns  were  closer.  She  was  not  afraid  for  her- 
self; she  did  not  know  enough  to  be  afraid,  but  she 
thought  of  Jeffrey  and  wondered  fearfully  if  this  meant 
another  battle  that  he  must  be  in,  and  thought  how 
weary  he  had  looked  and  how  much  sleep  she  had  caused 
him  to  lose. 

The  sky  was  light  but  day  had  not  yet  come  and 
everything  stood  defined  in  the  clear,  shadowless  dis- 
tinctness of  before-dawn.  She  could  see  the  dewdrops 
brimming  on  the  trees  and  the  blades  of  grass.  The 
world  before  her  window  was  empty  of  any  sight  more 
hostile  than  a  white  rabbit  taking  an  early  nibble,  with 
a  wary  eye  out  for  the  family  cat. 

She  dressed  and  hurried  downstairs  to  find  the  Bon- 
nets already  about,  with  a  breakfast  prepared.  The 
neighbor  woman  had  gone  over  the  fields  to  her  own 
place,  much  nearer  the  town,  but  the  Bonnets  were  not 

208 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

prepared  to  move  yet  for  the  mere  sound  of  guns.  Yet 
their  nerves  were  beginning  to  jump  at  the  constant 
shocks  and  they  ate  hurriedly,  going  often  to  the  door 
to  look  out. 

"They  are  closer — closer,"  said  madame  anxiously. 

As  the  three  stood  clustered  in  the  low  doorway  there 
came  a  crack  and  a  whipping  tongue  of  beautiful  blue 
smoke — and  a  tree  in  the  roadside  lashed  its  branches 
frantically  in  the  hurricane  breath. 

"Oh,  maman,  it  is  here !" 

"Be  quiet,  Marie.  We  will  descend  to  the  cellar,  if 
necessary.  Eh,  but  our  men  are  coming  back — look 
what  they  are  about." 

Down  the  white  road  toward  them  a  group  of  men 
came  galloping,  bringing  a  small  gun.  Off  the  road  they 
turned,  hurrying  behind  the  masking  row  of  trees,  and 
wheeled  the  gun  into  position.  One  gunner  turned  and 
seeing  the  women  shouted  a  hoarse  warning,  his  teeth, 
flashing  white  in  his  blackened  face. 

"Get  back  to  town — they  are  attacking!"  Then  he 
whirled  to  his  work. 

Katherine  watched  them  curiously.  This  man  was 
sighting  his  barrel,  swinging  it  back  and  forth  to  make 
sure  of  its  smoothness,  while  another  placed  in  readiness 
the  belts  of  cartridges  on  which  the  automatic  fed.  An- 
other, his  glasses  raised,  was  watching  some  spot  for  a 
signal.  He  raised  his  hand. 

She  watched  for  the  smoke.  None — nothing  but  a, 
little  flicker  of  red  like  the  dart  of  a  garter  snake's 
tongue,  and  the  thir-r-r,  thir-r-r,  of  the  rapid  spinning 
of  the  tape  through  the  cylinder.  .  .  .  Somewhere,  miles 

209 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

away,  over  the  hill  on  an  unseen  enemy  those  bullets 
were  raining. 

The  man  with  the  glasses  was  looking  again,  then  he 
turned  to  the  gunners  with  a  rapid  transmission  of  the 
signals  for  correcting  the  range  and  the  man  adjusted 
the  elevation.  Again  the  raised  hand — the  rapid  whirl- 
ing of  the  cartridge  belt. 

It  did  not  seem  to  her  like  a  gun.  It  did  not  seem  to 
her  like  war — this  little  group  of  men  behind  trees, 
the  distant  directions,  the  unseen  enemy.  She  wondered 
where  the  rest  of  the  French  were. 

One  of  the  artillerymen  came  running  up  to  fill  their 
canteens.  His  hands  were  black  and  greasy  like  pol- 
ished ebony  and  Katherine  stared  as  she  hurried  to  wait 
upon  him. 

"You  must  go,"  he  repeated.  "They  are  getting  the 
range — your  farm  will  go — like  that!"  He  snapped 
the  black  fingers. 

"It  is  my  home,"  said  madame,  "and  there  is  always 
the  cellar." 

"A  bomb  may  dig  you  a  bigger  one,"  he  retorted. 
"The  way  to  the  village  will  soon  be  unsafe.  .  .  .  Must 
it  take  a  bayonet  to  prod  you?" 

"No — no — let  us  stay,"  Marie  was  begging.  "I  can- 
not leave — I  am  not  well  enough  for  that  walk." 

"You  will  never  be  any  better  than  now,"  returned 
madame,  but  her  expression  was  dubious.  Neither 
woman  could  bear  to  leave  the  home  and  its  possessions. 

Suddenly  from  the  fields  on  their  left  came  a  crackle 
of  rifles  like  a  rattle  of  drums.  Katherine  ran  out  the 
door  to  look,  and  high  overhead  she  caught  a  dark 

210 


shadow  against  the  cloudy  sky.  An  aeroplane  of  the 
enemy  had  drawn  the  fire  of  a  masked  battery.  The 
next  minute,  it  seemed  to  her,  something  dropped  into 
those  fields.  She  saw  a  flash  of  flame  and  a  blur  of  dark 
fragments  rising  in  the  air — then  another  flame  and 
flash.  The  smoke  was  black,  heavy. 

The  crackle  of  bullets  was  steady,  now,  slitting  the 
air,  and  suddenly  the  girl  was  conscious  of  a  new  sound, 
a  whiz  and  hum  like  a  swarm  of  bees  high  in  the  air — 
a  whistle — a  wish-sh 

Bullets  were  coming  now  as  well  as  going.  The  enemy 
there  to  the  left  was  not  far  away.  She  thought  of 
Jeffrey  with  his  men  at  the  chateau  and  wondered  what 
part  they  were  taking  in  this. 

An  explosion  that  made  her  head  jerk  as  if  it  would 
snap  off  her  neck — and  the  wind  in  her  face  of  a  shrap- 
nel shell  that  struck  six  hundred  yards  away.  .  .  .  And 
beyond  that  the  blue  clouds  of  other  shrapnel,  leaping 
out  of  nothing.  .  .  .  And  she  remembered  that  there 
are  two  hundred  and  fifty  bullets  in  a  shrapnel  case  and 
they  carry  forward  and  kill  everything  for  twenty  yards 
ahead  and  ten  yards  at  the  side. 

She  had  read  this  in  a  Paris  paper  some  weeks  before 
and  she  now  saw  the  paper  distinctly  before  her  vision, 
the  unwavering  print  with  its  careful  numerals. 

She  tried  to  remember  what  she  had  read  about  bul- 
lets. There  was  something  about  a  short  hum  and  a 
long  hum — one  meant  that  the  bullet  was  far  and  the 
other  one  near,  but  here  the  facts  eluded  her.  She  could 
not  bring  the  phrases  to  mind.  It  seemed  to  her  terri- 
bly important  about  those  long  and  short  sounds. 

211 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"I  should  have  remembered  that,"  she  said  frowningly. 

She  had  a  tense,  high-strung  feeling  of  excitement. 
"This  is  actually  under  fire,"  she  thought,  and  recalled 
the  words  of  the  youth  at  the  Express  Office  that  mobili- 
zation day  in  Paris,  "Why,  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it 
for  anything.  This  is  an  experience!" 

She  was  back  in  the  shelter  of  the  doorway  now  with 
no  memory  at  all  of  her  flying  trip  to  it,  and  down  the 
road  a  streak  of  artillerymen  were  galloping,  bringing 
more  guns,  and  over  to  the  right,  across  the  fields,  zig- 
zagged a  line  of  moving  objects  like  ants,  except  that 
they  flashed  red  in  the  rising  sun. 

"Oh,  those  trousers !"  she  heard  herself  saying. 

Within  the  house  Madame  Bonnet  was  moving  briskly, 
making  hurried  bundles. 

"Too  late  is  never  too  well,"  she  uttered  sententiously. 
"Take  this,  Marie,  that  is  enough  for  thee.  Mademoi- 
selle, will  you  put  these  in  your  case?  And  these?  For 
myself,  you  see " 

For  herself  she  had  an  enormous  bundle  of  linens  and 
household  goods  swelling  out  a  sheet  which  she  cumber- 
somely  strapped  to  her  shoulders  as  she  marshaled 
them  to  the  door. 

"The  stable  is  on  fire,"  she  remarked  calmly.  "It 
came  when  that  monster  noise  broke  the  glass.  Well 
there  are  no  beasts  left  to  save.  That  man  told  the 
truth.  We  must  go  before  it  is  too  dangerous.  .  .  . 
It  is  no  time  for  tears,  Marie.  The  farm  may  stand. 
But  we  must  make  sure  of  what  we  can — and  of  our- 
selves." 

She  was  a  figure  of  dignity,  even  with  that  huge 
212 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

bundle  upon  her  shoulders,  as  she  stood  at  the  threshold 
of  her  old  home,  taking  what  might  be  her  last  look  upon 
it.  Her  eyes  were  bright  and  tearless,  and  her  deep- 
lined  features  unrevealing.  Only  the  breath  tearing  its 
way  painfully  through  her  restricted  throat  betrayed 
her. 

"Maman,  the  cat!"  cried  Marie  pitifully. 

"I'll  take  him  in  a  pillow  case,"  Katherine  volun- 
teered. 

Madame  considered.  "He  would  run  from  the  village 
— back  here.  No,  he  will  hide  from  the  noise  and  hunt 
mice  till  we  come  again.  Adieu,  poor  beast.  .  .  .  On 
our  way." 

The  little  group  set  out  into  a  world  on  which  a  pale 
dun  sun  was  rising,  a  world  shaken  and  racked  with  in- 
human, ear-splitting  noises.  As  they  took  the  path 
on  one  side  of  the  road  Katherine  glanced  back,  beyond 
the  farm  to  the  wooded  slopes  of  a  hill — her  hill  and 
Jeffrey's.  That  Sunday  there  had  been  the  last  of 
June.  .  .  .  And  now  it  was  early  October,  and  on  the 
hill  the  trees  were  shedding  their  dry  and  yellow  leaves. 
.  .  .  But  what  changes  in  their  lives !  Jeffrey  in  arms 
facing  the  enemy — and  she,  trudging  along  the  path 
with  the  French  refugees  .  .  . 

For  a  minute  the  tenacity  of  the  past  order  made  the 
present  remote  and  unreal.  Then  a  wave  of  fear 
brought  the  reality  home  again  to  her  with  secret  panic. 
Thurish-h — thurish-h — thureesh — a  shell  went  scream- 
ing overhead.  She  did  not  see  where  it  struck ;  she  did 
not  see  that  it  struck  anything,  but  her  nerves  started 
from  the  stunned  acquiescence  of  the  dav  and  began  to 

213 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

dance.  The  enemy  were  getting  the  range ;  it  was  not 
the  masked  infantry  that  drew  this  fire;  it  was  these 
hidden  guns,  this  advancing  column  of  men.  .  .  . 

Thurish-h — thurish-h — thureesh.  Another  and  an- 
other. 

She  gripped  Marie's  arm  tightly,  urging  her  to  haste. 
After  them  Madame  Bonnet  trudged  in  hard-breathing 
silence.  Katherine's  throat  was  dry ;  she  felt  weak  and 
shaky.  She  wanted  to  run.  The  whine  of  a  spent  bul- 
let in  her  ear  made  her  dodge  in  futile  panic.  She 
thought,  "Any  moment — any  moment — 

For  a  time  those  seemed  the  only  words  of  her  con- 
sciousness, then  she  began  to  wrangle  angrily  with  her 
fright.  "What  do  the  men  do  in  the  fields?  They  face 
this — they  aren't  all  killed !"  But  a  voice  in  her  an- 
swered that  these  men  were  sustained  by  the  heat  of  bat- 
tle and  the  intense  demand  upon  their  activities ;  they 
were  not  trudging  along  a  muddy  road  with  two  foolish 
women  who  had  so  weighted  themselves  with  household 
goods  that  they  resembled  a  rummage  sale !  She  felt  an 
insane  desire  to  laugh  as  she  remembered  that  she  had 
offered  to  lug  the  cat. 

In  her  inmost  soul  she  would  have  been  glad  to  take 
her  heels  and  race  down  that  road,  but  shame  restrained 
her,  and  on  she  marched  in  a  cold  and  horrid  fright. 
When  she  spoke,  which  she  did  encouragingly  to  Marie, 
she  was  surprised  at  the  strength  and  calm  of  her  own 
voice.  It  sounded  as  usual.  She  seemed  to  be  acting  as 
usual. 

She  had  no  memory  of  that  road.  It  stretched  on  and 
on,  forever  and  forever.  Sometimes  they  abandoned  it 

214 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

to  advancing  troops,  and  took  to  the  fields.  Vaguely 
she  remembered  a  trench,  hastily  dug,  veiled  with 
branches  from  the  enemy's  observations  from  above,  be- 
ing fortified  with  guns.  She  remembered  smoke  that 
curled  out  of  a  distant  row  of  trees  and  minute  flashes 
of  red  light.  .  .  .  Her  head  and  neck  were  aching  from 
their  spasmodic  jerks  and  she  had  bitten  her  cheeks  and 
tongue  in  the  sudden  crashes  of  guns.  She  began  to 
chew  on  a  piece  of  her  handkerchief  as  she  had  seen  men 
chew  on  cigars. 

And  then  they  had  crossed  the  little  stream  and  gained 
the  village  and  a  blessed  sense  of  haven  reached  envel- 
oped her.  The  gray  walls  looked  safe  and  sheltering, 
and  no  shells  were  dropping  there  as  yet. 

Madame  Bonnet  took  refuge  with  some  friends  in 
their  little  shop  upon  the  main  street.  Here  no  one 
knew  any  more  than  the  Bonnets  what  was  happening 
for  all  that  could  be  sure  was  that  the  Germans  were 
suddenly  advancing  and  the  French  and  English  were 
out  there  to  hold  them  off.  There  was  talk  of  rein- 
forcements that  were  expected. 

"It  was  like  this  before — but  they  did  not  come,"  a 
woman  assured  madame. 

From  the  door  Katherine  could  look  out  into  the 
square  where  she  had  seen  those  sleeping  soldiers  last 
night  about  their  fire.  The  cobblestones  looked  very 
hard.  They  must  have  been  tired  to  sleep !  From  out 
the  church's  wide  doors  the  village  priest  came  into  the 
square  to  help  bring  in  the  bedding  for  the  hospital  im- 
provised there,  and  she  saw  the  nurses  appear  at  inter- 
vals. Once  she  went  forward  and  spoke  to  the  slender 

215 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

one  whose  satchel  she  had  carried,  offering  to  help,  but 
aid  was  not  yet  needed,  the  nurse  told  her  and  Katherine 
returned  to  the  villagers. 

It  was  a  day  of  interminable  hours.  At  first  the 
women  talked  bravely  and  hopefully.  Les  Buissons  had 
been  saved  before  when  all  the  countryside  had  been 
overrun ;  and  it  would  be  saved  again,  for  their  men 
would  hold  the  woods  and  the  protecting  loop  of  river. 
Nothing  in  it  had  yet  been  hurt,  although  the  shells  be- 
gan to  drop  into  the  village.  A  small  fire  or  two,  or  a 
roof  did  not  matter.  The  shells  would  stop.  So  they 
encouraged  one  another. 

Then  subtly,  stealthily,  the  secret  reaction  set  in.  It 
was  hard  to  tell  just  when  it  first  betrayed  itself,  in  the 
louder  assumptions  of  confidence  and  the  repetitions  of 
good  hope.  Perhaps  it  came  with  the  first  sight  of  the 
men  returning  from  the  front,  limping,  dragging  them- 
selves painfully,  or  carried  in  stretchers.  The  anxiety 
was  acute  for  the  village  men  were  in  the  defending  com- 
pany in  the  trenches,  and  the  women  ran  out  from  door- 
ways to  greet  the  wounded  and  when  the  rattle  of  the 
gray  ambulance  motor  sounded  they  swarmed  after  it 
to  peer  in  the  open  back  for  a  familiar  form  among  those 
stretched  in  the  shelf-like  bunks. 

Sometimes  the  onlookers  turned  silently  away;  some- 
times there  would  ring  out  a  cry  of  "Jean !"  or 
"Jacques !"  and  the  women  would  follow  after  the  motor 
to  learn  the  danger  of  the  wound.  At  times  they  did  not 
need  to  ask — a  leg  gone  or  an  arm  wrenched  off  at  the 
socket  enlightened  at  first  glance. 

With  the  wounded  came  the  trickle  of  individual  news. 
216 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

The  Boches  were  coming  on  incessantly ;  they  were 
charging  here ;  their  guns  were  hammering  there.  They 
had  crossed  the  distant  river  in  the  face  of  deadly  fire, 
and  charged  the  trenches  with  a  rain  of  hand  grenades 
and  liquid  fire  so  terrible  that  all  men  in  one  trench 
were  burned  to  death.  A  drop  blinded.  ...  It  did  no 
good  to  kill  those  Germans ;  for  every  company  that 
went  down  there  were  two  to  follow.  They  thought  noth- 
ing of  men.  They  had  them  to  throw  away  like  grains 
of  sand. 

So  the  stories  came,  brought  by  those  bloodied,  dust- 
caked  lips. 

The  shells  were  falling  now  with  thundering  regu- 
larity. One  fell  upon  the  roof  of  the  new  inn  and  there 
was  no  more  inn,  only  a  crumble  of  debris  under  which 
the  bodies  of  the  proprietor  and  his  wife  and  children 
were  pinned.  His  old  sisters  began  to  dig  frantically 
among  the  bricks,  crying  aloud  and  listening  for  muffled 
words. 

People  were  staring  at  each  other  with  frightened 
eyes.  Still  they  talked  hopefully.  Their  men  were  out 
there;  they  would  soon  stop  this.  But  the  shells  fell 
thicker  and  thicker  and  the  buildings  shook  with  the 
deafening  roar  and  the  window  glass  shivered  and 
crashed  and  still  the  gray  rumbling  motors  brought  in 
the  wounded  from  the  front. 

Now  the  hospital  was  being  moved.  The  shells 
seemed  to  have  concentrated  upon  the  church  for  one- 
half  the  roof  was  gone  and  many  of  the  wounded  killed. 
Hastily  the  motors  rushed  their  shattered  freight  far- 
ther from  the  danger  zone  and  carts  and  stretcher- 

217 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

bearers  followed,  bringing  what  they  could.  One  sur- 
geon's motor  made  the  trip  again  and  again,  till  the 
last  man  was  out. 

Later  a  cart  came  slowly  down  the  road  from  the  fir- 
ing line,  loaded  with  huddled  men,  with  others  clinging 
to  the  sides  and  back  painfully  dragging  themselves 
along.  In  the  village  square  the  priest  sorrowfully 
pointed  down  the  road  in  the  direction  the  hospital  had 
taken  and  the  cart  creaked  slowly  on,  its  axles  complain- 
ing, but  not  a  groan  coming  from  its  occupants,  while 
many  of  the  hangers-on  gave  up  and  followed  the  priest 
into  the  nearest  house  for  what  care  they  could  get. 

It  had  been  raining  for  some  hours  and  though  the 
heaviest  downpour  had  ceased  the  air  was  a  dreary  driz- 
zle of  rain. 

On  and  on  went  the  terrible  pounding  of  the  guns, 
but  the  shells  did  not  seem  to  be  directed  against  the 
village  but  were  bursting  just  ahead  where  the  trenches 
were  and  the  guns.  Katherine  ceased  to  jump  and 
quiver  at  each  shock  and  roar ;  she  felt  a  stunned  and 
heavy  feeling  of  insensibility.  There  was  no  pretense 
of  encouraging  talk  among  the  people  now ;  they  waited 
in  stolid  silence,  dumb  with  apprehension  and  forebod- 
ing that  grew  keener  from  moment  to  moment.  Their 
men  were  losing.  They  felt  it,  they  knew  it,  and  they 
waited,  speechlessly,  for  the  event. 

The  order  to  fall  back  had  been  given  and  back 
through  the  streets  came  the  men  at  a  forced  march, 
dogged  and  silent. 

The  gazing  women  knew  then  and  their  hearts  sank. 
A  few  ran  out  into  the  road  and  followed  the  soldiers. 

218 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Katherine  ran  out,  too,  to  bring  food  to  the  stragglers 
and  question  them,  but  they  knew  nothing  except  of 
their  own  pocket  of  the  fight.  They  were  ordered  to 
fall  back — that  was  all.  The  guns  and  the  cavalry 
would  hold  off  the  enemy  as  long  as  possible.  But  if 

j   only    they    had    been    allowed    to    go    forward    and 

!/  charge ! 

The  rain  was  ceasing,  but  the  sky  was  still  heavily 
clouded,  dull  and  dark,  and  through  the  dusk  that  was 
like  the  dusk  of  twilight  the  men  marched,  a  long  and 
weary  stream,  wet  and  cold,  disheartened  by  their  orders, 
sick  at  the  outcome  of  events.  Retreat,  even  a  strategic 
retreat,  was  bitterness.  And  there  was  too  intense  a 
familiarity  in  this  order  to  fall  back.  They  had  only 
begun  to  advance.  Now  their  progress  appeared  unre- 
liable and  transient.  Retreat  was  the  only  substantial 
and  enduring  thing  in  a  world  of  disaster. 

So  they  marched,  hurrying,  haphazard,  lines  and  lines 
of  men,  and  out  in  front  the  guns  spoke  fiercely  and  the 
distant  racket  of  rifles  rang.  Then  for  a  time  the  streets 
were  empty  and  the  people  huddled  in  the  doorways, 
munching  bread  and  looking  out  and  waiting,  till  a  fresh 

'  onslaught  of  shells  drove  them  within  again.  Children 
began  to  cry  with  nervousness  at  the  incessant  noise, 
and  anxious  mothers,  huddling  in  the  basements,  tried 
to  quiet  them  and  told  them  frightening  tales  of  how 
still  they  must  be  if  the  Boches  came,  with  never  a 
sound  to  betray  their  hiding-places ! 

Katherine   clung  to  the  doorway,  staring  out,   and 
whatever  spark  of  hope  she  still  cherished  went  cold  at 
the  sight  of  the  retreating  guns.     They  were  brought 
15  219 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

back  at  a  gallop,  the  men  lishing  the  horses  through 
the  stony  streets.  Gun  after  gun  rattled  past  and  still 
Katherine  waited,  her  heart  pounding  with  suspense 
and  fear.  Surely  Jeffrey's  men  must  come  this  way! 
Or  were  they  circling  about  on  distant  roads,  lined  for 
a  desperate  last  stand ? 

A  sudden  thought  took  her  across  the  square  to  the 
church.  There  was  a  stairway  to  the  bells,  and  a  tiny 
place  to  look  out.  Strange  she  had  not  thought  of  it 
before!  She  sped  through  the  empty  building  where 
abandoned  bedding  and  the  smell  of  ether  told  the  story 
of  its  recent  occupancy,  and  hurried  up  the  old  stair, 
straining  her  eyes  down  the  wide  roadway. 

The  shells  had  stopped.  The  world  seemed  suddenly 
strangely  quiet  and  still. 

It  was  dark  down  there  and  the  trees  threw  such 
shadows.  .  .  .  But  out  there,  no,  those  were  not  shadows 
in  the  road,  but  moving  men — that  road  was  all  men. 
.  .  .  And  there,  beyond,  across  the  fields — those  creep- 
ing lines — those  were  men,  too.  .  .  .  Dim,  green-gray, 
indistinguishable  from  the  dusk,  except  for  their  move- 
ment, they  were  coming — the  Germans. 

Her  hands  turned  cold.  Her  heart  beat  as  if  it  would 
burst  her  side.  She  turned  to  warn  the  people  below 
but  her  eyes  still  clung  to  those  dim,  swarming  fields. 

And  then,  just  outside  the  village,  at  the  road's  angle 
with  the  little  stream,  she  saw  another  line  of  moving 
figures  emerge  from  the  shadows  of  the  trees  and  sud- 
denly sweep  away  toward  the  first  detachment  of  the 
oncoming  swarm.  An  instant  more,  and  a  din  of  noise 
was  borne  up  to  her  through  the  air  that  had  been  so 

220 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

still — shouts  and  cries,  yells  and  gunshots  and  the 
screams  of  horses  all  mingled  in  a  fearful  babel. 

She  could  not  see ;  she  strained  her  eyes  in  vain.  Only 
dimness  and  indistinguishable  confusion.  What  was 
there?  Was  that  the  English  cavalry,  in  a  desperate 
sally  against  the  first  of  the  enemy?  Had  they  been  in- 
tercepted in  a  too-delayed  retreat?  ...  A  bugle  was 
sounding  wildly.  .  .  .  And  then  came  the  clatter  of 
hoofs  on  cobblestones  and  she  saw  horseman  after  horse- 
man dashing  through  the  streets  and  many  a  riderless 
horse  with  them. 

She  leaned  over  the  rail  of  her  balcony.  There  were 
men  in  khaki,  riding  with  reckless  desperation.  There 
were  not  many  of  them.  And  then  came  a  last  group 
that  swung  about  in  the  square  and  swept  back  down 
the  street  again,  a  reckless  handful  gaining  a  few  min- 
utes for  their  comrades  at  a  terrible  sacrifice.  ... 
Where  was  Jeffrey  among  them?  Was  he  there  at  all? 
She  could  have  sworn  that  that  figure  she  had  glimpsed 
on  the  big  black  was  he — but  in  the  confusion  her  over- 
anxious eyes  might  be  mistaken. 

Tense  and  rigid  she  waited,  listening  to  the  shock  of 
an  encounter  just  beyond  the  corner,  and  then  one  horse- 
man came  tearing  back  through  the  square,  and  then 
others,  in  twos  and  threes,  riding  for  their  lives,  and 
after  them  a  molten  mounted  mass  of  men,  helmets  glit- 
tering, lances  striking,  hoarse  German  cries  sound- 
ing as  they  bore  down  upon  the  last  of  the  little  band 
of  English  who  had  so  daringly  waylaid  and  attacked 
them.  And  behind  them  more  Germans  and  more  and 
more.  Like  a  whirlwind  they  swept  through  the  square 

2£1 


,  THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

and  on  up  the  street,  the  racket  of  their  hoofs  dying 
abruptly  as  the  cobblestones  ended. 

Sick  with  fright  she  clung  to  the  railing,  then  turned 
and  stumbled  down  the  stairs  and  through  the  church 
to  the  outer  doors.  A  horror  of  foreboding  was  upon 
her. 

Even  in  those  few  minutes  the  scene  had  changed. 
The  square  lay  utterly  silent,  and  motionless,  deserted 
of  the  wild  life  which  had  poured  through  it.  For  a 
moment  she  thought  it  empty,  except  for  that  horse 
writhing  there  horribly,  and  then  as  her  eyes  swept  its 
shadows  she  saw  those  dumpy  figures,  huddled,  inert  and 
motionless  where  they  had  been  flung,  like  sacks  tossed 
from  some  cart.  .  .  .  She  stared  at  them  in  horror, 
and  then  a  limp  outflung  arm  caught  her  eyes — and  all 
the  icy  blood  seemed  driven  back  from  her  heart  as  she 
saw  that  long,  thin  figure  lying  there  unstirringly. 

And  in  the  very  moment  that  she  saw  him,  she  saw 
something  else  that  burned  the  ice  from  her  veins  and 
poured  the  fury  of  the  tiger  mate  into  her.  From  out 
the  shadows  ahead  a  green-gray  figure  straightened 
from  one  of  the  immovable  forms.  The  gleam  of  the 
bayonet  in  his  hand  lit  up  that  scene  for  her  in  a  flash 
of  lurid  lighting.  The  man  moved  to  the  next  figure. 
Out  the  door  she  went  on  flying  feet ;  she  caught  up 
something — what  she  never  knew,  a  brick,  a  rock,  a  bit 
of  gun — and  launched  herself  upon  him  as  he  stooped. 
She  seemed  to  crash  through  space,  striking  furiously  at 
something  that  went  down  before  her.  .  .  .  She  heard 
a  grunt.  .  .  .  And  then  she  staggered  up  and  then 
the  man  rolled  over  and  lay  still.  As  she  bent  over  him 

222 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

his  stertorous  breathing  was  not  more  uneven  than  her 
own. 

Back  to  Jeff  re}7  Edgerton  she  flew;  she  flung  herself 
upon  his  body,  not  stopping  to  know  if  he  were  dead 
or  alive;  she  knelt  and  clutching  his  shoulders  she 
dragged  him  up  on  her  strong  young  back  and  stag- 
gered, reeling,  to  the  nearest  doorway.  .  .  . 

Back  in  the  empty  shop  was  a  closed  trapdoor.  She 
pounded  on  it  and  as  it  was  not  locked,  she  pried  it  up 
and  called  gaspingly  into  the  blackness,  crying  that 
she  had  an  English  officer  there  that  she  must  save. 

"Quick,  quick,"  she  sobbed  down  into  that  darkness. 

From  the  depths  below  a  ladder  reached  out,  and  an 
old  man's  head  appeared.  She  flew  back  to  Jeffrey  and 
together  they  bore  him  down  into  the  safe  gloom  of 
that  cellar  and  closed  the  hatch  again  and  hid  the  lad- 
der. 

Into  the  farthest  recess  of  the  place  they  dragged 
him,  where  some  women  were  huddled  with  their  children. 
He  was  breathing  heavily ;  now  he  began  to  moan.  She 
bathed  his  temples  with  the  water  the  women  gave,  and 
held  some  to  his  lips  as  his  eyes  opened.  He  drank 
gaspingly,  then  his  head  fell  back  against  her  arm. 

"It's  I — Katherine,"  she  whispered. 

Dazedly  he  accepted  the  miracle.  For  the  moment  it 
seemed  enough  to  him  to  comprehend  that  he  was  safe 
with  her,  hidden  and  secret,  and  that  for  all  the  heavi- 
ness and  aching  of  his  head,  the  fall  had  not  cut  it  nor 
broken  any  bones.  He  lay  there  quietly,  like  a  child,  his 
head  in  her  lap,  his  hand  clasping  hers  in  the  darkness. 

Beside  them  the  old  man  and  the  women  were  working 
223 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

through  an  aperture  they  had  made  in  the  wall  where 
they  had  dug  out  a  little  den  where  they  might  hide. 
Now  they  were  working  the  harder  to  make  it  large 
enough  for  the  English  officer  to  rest  in  comfort  and 
the  simple  friendliness  with  which  they  shared  their 
hiding-place  and  their  food  and  drink  with  two  strangers 
went  to  Katherine's  heart. 

For  all  the  fear  of  those  furtive  moments  she  knew 
a  deep,  fierce  gladness.  Jeffrey  was  safe  and  she  had 
saved  him.  The  passion  of  the  primitive  mate  beat 
strong  in  her ;  she  crouched  over  his  head  with  eyes  that 
searched  the  darkness  for  the  first  hint  of  danger.  For 
this,  she  felt,  she  had  waited  in  Paris,  she  had  come  to 
Les  Buissons,  had  watched  that  village  street. 

Her  man  was  safe  and  she  had  saved  him. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

THEY  had  moved  into  the  den  hollowed  out  be- 
hind the  wall,  replacing  enough  bricks  to  leave 
only  a  tiny  aperture.  And  in  this  cave  they 
crouched,  hour  after  unending  hour,  while  over  their 
heads  sounded  the  din  and  confusion  of  the  victorious 
army.  There  were  shouts  and  lusty  singing,  endless 
marching  of  endless  feet,  trampling  of  horses,  clatter  of 
wheels,  and  rumble  of  guns.  Straining  their  ears  they 
tried  to  distinguish  the  sounds  that  came  down  to  them. 

Once  the  trap  was  lifted.  Through  the  chinks  in 
their  loosely  piled  bricks  they  saw  the  pale  light  of  a 
lantern  lowered  into  the  cellar,  while  a  voice  called  out 
in  German  to  know  if  there  were  anyone  there.  Behind 
their  flimsy  barricade  they  sat  motionless,  the  children 
dumb,  with  their  heads  buried  in  their  mothers'  laps, 
not  a  whimper  betraying  them.  The  lamp  was  with- 
drawn. 

"A  rat  in  a  trap,"  Jeffrey  muttered  restlessly.  With 
his  returning  strength  came  bitterness  at  the  fate  which 
penned  him  here,  a  helpless  fugitive  from  his  enemies, 
unable  either  to  fight  or  fly. 

His  practical  mind  busied  itself  with  the  problem. 
225 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Give  himself  up — never!  Skulk  here  until  starved  out? 
Make  a  dash  for  it  under  cover  of  dark  and  be  shot?  .  . . 
He  put  a  hand  to  his  bruised  head,  shaking  it  angrily, 
deeply  chagrined  at  his  predicament. 

For  Katherine  his  anxiety  was  sharper  than  for  him- 
self. He  begged  her  to  hide  herself,  to  trust  no  one. 
Memories  of  Belgium  tortured  him.  He  could  only  hope 
that  the  Allies  would  come  again  with  those  reinforce- 
ments which  had  been  delayed. 

For  long,  long  hours  they  huddled  there,  speaking  in 
whispers,  their  hands  locked.  .  .  .  Everything  that  she 
had  ever  felt  for  him  seemed  poor  beside  the  flood-tide 
of  this  feeling 

At  last  he  slept  and  gratefully  she  sat  there,  pillow- 
ing his  head,  cramped  and  stiff,  but  flooded  with  the 
ecstasy  of  his  safety.  Sometimes  she,  too,  dozed,  her 
head  drooping  against  the  earth  wall,  her  weariness  un- 
mindful of  cramp  or  discomfort 

From  such  a  nap  she  roused  with  a  start.  The  noises 
overhead  which  had  been  quieter  had  broken  out  in 
louder  force.  There  was  an  uproar  of  sound,  a  crackle 
of  rifles,  a  crash  of  blows,  of  falling  weights,  a  trampling 
of  feet.  She  heard  human  voices,  shouting  and  yelling, 
and  the  earth  shook  with  the  jarring  crash  as  of  two 
armies  coming  together. 

Jeffrey  was  alert,  rigid  with  excitement. 

"By  God,  they  have  come  back — it's  a  night  attack !" 
He  scratched  a  match  and  peered  at  his  watch.  "Two 
o'clock.  .  .  .  The  boys  are  up  there.  They've  taken 
them  by  surprise.  .  .  .  Let  me  get  out  of  this." 

"Wait — wait!"  she  implored,  and  in  desperation  she 
226 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

urged  the  only  plea  that  could  stay  him :  "If  you  go  up 
and  fight  them  now  they'll  think  it  is  a  civilian  and  if 
they  hold  the  village  they'll  burn  it  in  revenge.  Wait 
till  you  are  sure.  You  must !" 

"I'll  make  sure — but  I  must  go,  dear.  .  .  .  I'm  my- 
self, now.  I  must  go." 

The  earth  was  shaken  with  the  jar  of  feet.  Up  ifl 
the  darkness  above  them  a  wild  fight  was  on. 

Jeffrey  was  out  in  the  cellar  and  searching  for  the 
ladder;  when  he  found  it  Katherine  pressed  on  up  after 
him,  hoping  and  fearing.  The  hatch  had  not  been 
replaced  and  they  saw  that  the  room  above  them  was 
dark.  Cautiously  they  raised  themselves  into  it,  finding 
abandoned  blankets  and  other  bedding  in  their  way,  and 
stole  to  the  open  door.  Out  in  the  street  through  the 
darkness  a  line  of  shadowy  figures  was  racing,  stopping 
to  turn  and  fire  and  then  tear  on  again.  Back  of  them 
a  bugle  rang. 

"Our  call — our  call!"  Jeffrey  crouched  forward, 
his  lean  body  strained  and  tense.  "They're  still  com- 
ing, girl,  they're  coming — a  night  charge.  .  .  .  Do  you 
hear  that  yell?  .  .  .  The  Guards  are  with  them.  .  .  . 
Oh,  if  I  had  a  horse,  a  saber !  .  .  .  Do  you  hear  them, 
do  you  hear?" 

Wild-tongued  on  the  night,  like  a  pack  of  hounds  in 
cry,  came  the  swelling  sound  again,  deep- throated,  tri- 
umphant, the  human  cry  of  man  hunting  man.  Into  the 
square  swept  the  ranks  of  mounted  men,  driving  out  the 
last  of  those  firing  shadows,  and  as  the  square  filled 
there  came  a  crackle  of  rifles  and  a  rain  of  fire  burst 
down  upon  the  invaders  from  the  windows  where  a  band 

227 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

of  Germans  had  waited  in  ambush.  The  screams  of 
horses  answered,  shrilling  over  the  shouts  of  men,  and 
in  plunging  confusion  the  crowded  ranks  wheeled  and 
reared  while  the  slaughter  went  on  Men  flung  them- 
selves from  their  horses  and  tore  into  the  buildings  while 
fresh  cavalry  poured  into  the  square  and  surged  on 
<after  the  flying  Germans. 

Jeffrey  turned  to  Katherine.  "Good-by,  my  girl, 
good-by." 

"Oh,  Jeffrey,  no,  no,  no !"  It  was  a  cry  of  sheerest 
terror.  Her  arms  clung  tensely  to  him  to  hold  him, 
from  that  pandemonium  of  death. 

Once  more  he  kissed  her.  "Be  brave,  dear.  I'll  come 
back  to  you  again,"  and  with  a  quick,  tight  clasp,  a  last 
hurried  kiss,  he  was  out  the  door  and  catching  at  the 
bridle  of  a  riderless  horse.  .  .  .  She  heard  his  voice 
ringing  out  in  the  shout  for  a  sword  and  then  he  was 
lost  to  her  in  the  mob  of  men. 

All  that  night  the  Allies  came,  pouring  back  through 
the  village,  and  by  morning  fresh  troops  were  still  com- 
ing and  spreading  fan-like  across  the  fields  and  hills,  and 
all  morning  the  deep,  shaking  detonations  told  of  the 
greeting  of  the  guns  that  awaited  them  out  there.  A 
great  battle  was  on. 

Back  to  their  homes  crept  the  people,  back  to  the 
shell-ridden  ruins  that  had  been  homes,  and  at  dawn 
Katherine  was  following  them  pitifully  about,  help- 
ing where  she  could,  carrying  tired  babies,  soothing 
little  children.  The  sights  she  saw  tore  at  her  very 
heart. 

She  had  not  seen  Belgium  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
228 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

was  looking  upon  the  deeps  of  desolation.  The  death  that 
she  had  seen  before  had  been  death  in  a  casket  with  the 
scent  of  flowers,  the  sound  of  music  and  all  the  soften- 
ing tenderness  with  which  love  surrounds  the  last  visible 
moments  of  the  body.  But  now  she  saw  men  dead  in 
the  streets,  stiff-legged,  grotesque  in  their  last  agonies, 
bloody  and  staring-eyed — and  she  saw  the  scattered 
remnants  of  what  had  been  men  the  night  before  and 
now  were  sickening  horrors  to  be  pitched  into  a  wagon 
and  carried  to  a  lime-filled  trench. 

At  the  end  of  one  street  the  girl  leaned  against  a 
house,  shaken  with  a  paroxysm  of  nausea. 

A  woman  passed  her,  searching  the  ruins.  Suddenly 
she  ran  into  one  debris  pile  and  brought  out  some  bits 
of  yellow  crockery.  She  turned  to  Katherine. 

"That  was  my  jug."  And  then  she  stood  silent, 
staring.  Presently  she  crept  to  the  broken  threshold 
and  sat  down,  leaning  against  the  charred  door-frame, 
the  broken  pieces  in  her  lap. 

"If  I  could  paint  her  so,"  thought  Katherine,  "if  peo- 
ple would  only  see  this  war !" 

Later  when  she  had  seen  the  body  of  an  old  man, 
strangled  in  his  barn,  his  face  a  bloodied  bruise,  she 
knew  that  no  pictures  could  ever  tell  the  story.  But  she 
felt  that  whatever  talent  was  hers  was  consecrated  to  the 
one  purpose  of  trying  to  tell  it. 

In  one  of  the  houses  Marie  lay  very  ill  with  her  baby 
girl.  Madame  Bonnet  had  not  hidden ;  she  had  met  an 
intruding  German  at  the  door  with  a  statement  of  the 
case  and  found  the  young  man  unexpectedly  sympa- 
thetic. He  had  driven  out  some  roisterers  below-stairs 

229 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

and  written  a  notice  that  here  a  new-born  babe  was  not 
to  be  disturbed. 

"A  very  good  young  man,"  said  Madame  Bonnet. 
"He  had  sense  and  consideration.  .  .  .  Why  should 
such  people  fight  us,  mademoiselle?  Can  they  not  be 
busy  and  happy  at  home?" 

"They  have  a  government  of  Caesars,"  said  Kath- 
erine  bitterly. 

"What  a  thing  it  is  to  have  education!"  commented 
madame. 

For  Katherine's  narration  of  the  events  of  her  night 
she  had  an  equable  acceptance.  "That  is  what  it  is  to 
have  presence  of  mind !  I  hope  you  killed  the  assassin." 

"He  was  breathing,"  said  Katherine  doubtfully.  She 
had  thought  that  she  would  feel  strange  to  know  that 
she  had  killed  a  man.  To  her  amazement  she  was  in- 
different. He  was  a  sickening  vampire.  She  remem- 
bered that  Jeffrey  had  said,  "I  hope  you  didn't  kill 
him,  dear,"  and  she  felt  a  flash  of  humor  at  the  revela- 
tion. Men  were  like  that — even  in  what  they  felt  was 
righteous  carnage  they  wanted  their  women's  hands 
clean.  .  .  . 

In  the  church  the  Red  Cross  hospital  had  reestab- 
lished itself,  and  men  were  out  with  stretchers  and  carts, 
bringing  in  the  wounded.  Beneath  a  fallen  stone  wall 
Katherine  saw  a  mangled  hand  moving  and  she  shouted 
at  a  man  she  saw  hurrying  across  the  square.  He  came 
quickly,  a  trim,  spare  little  doctor,  with  thick-lensed 
glasses,  and  meeting  the  brown  eyes  back  of  them  Kath- 
erine called  him  by  name. 

"Why,  Dr.  Thibault !  You  took  care  of  Robert  Mac- 
230 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Nare's  little  daughter.  Do  you  remember  me — the  night 
of  the  croup  ?" 

"Perfectly,"  he  rejoined  quickly,  "but  to  find  you 
here "  * 

His  eyes  were  very  questioning.  That  haunting 
thought  of  spies ! 

She  told  him  how  she  came,  and  how  the  night  had 
passed,  while  two  men  he  called  up  were  digging  out 
the  poor  buried  fellow  below,  a  German,  it  seemed,  who 
must  have  been  caught  by  a  toppling  wall  at  the  mo- 
ment of  retreat. 

"Do  let  me  help,"  Katherine  besought,  when  the 
crushed  lad  was  taken  to  the  hospital.  "You  know  that 
I  can  be  of  some  help — and  I  can  follow  directions.  I 
have  been  studying  at  those  first-aid  courses " 

He  remembered  her  steady  presence  of  mind  with  the 
child.  "Come  then.  We  are  short-handed,  and  it  may 
be  you  will  be  of  use." 

She  found  the  same  nurses  there  that  had  been  there 
the  day  before.  They  had  only  retreated  to  the  next 
village,  and  leaving  the  wounded  they  had  brought  to 
the  care  of  other  nurses  there,  these  had  come  again, 
at  the  first  permission,  to  establish  a  field  hospital  as 
near  as  possible  to  the  firing  line.  The  roof  was  being 
roughly  protected  and  clean  beds  had  been  made  up 
all  over  the  church,  and  an  operating-room  arranged  in 
the  baptistry,  but  as  yet  there  was  small  need  of  that.  It 
had  been  a  life  or  death  struggle  and  there  was  more 
call  for  men  with  spades  and  quicklime  than  for  sur- 
geons. 

All  that  day  Katherine  saw  those  wagons  wending 
231 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

their  slow  way  along  the  fields ;  saw  them  halt  and  the 
drivers  hand  down  the  shovels  and  then  the  stiff  logs 
of  bodies;  saw  them  begin  to  dig.  .  .  . 

And  that  was  the  end  of  them,  of  all  that  had 
been  men,  the  end  of  their  eager  lives,  their  hopes, 
their  ardors.  .  .  .  Butchered  .  .  .  hurled  out  of  the 
world.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  lump  in  her  throat  that  never  left.  But 
she  went  very  steadily  about  the  work  assigned  to  her, 
grateful  for  the  interest  of  that  pleasant  nurse  with 
the  friendly  eyes  whose  bag  she  had  carried.  Soon  the 
ambulance  from  the  front  began  to  bring  its  human 
freight. 

Nurses  entering  hospitals  have  a  mercifully  long  time 
to  become  inured  to  the  horrors  of  sickrooms,  and  only 
little  by  little  are  admitted  to  the  full  secrets  of  life  and 
death.  But  Katherine  took  a  baptism  of  fire.  ...  In 
Paris  she  had  seen  much  of  the  hospitals,  but  there  it  was 
illness  in  its  bed,  clean  and  decent,  mercifully  soothed 
and  tended,  and  she  had  thought  it  pitiful  enough,  but 
now  she  saw  the  wounded  coming  in  all  the  dirt  and 
filth  of  battle,  broken,  bloody,  battered,  legs  horribly 
dangling,  wounds  caked,  eyes  gouged.  .  .  .  To  see  it 
was  to  see  into  the  heart  of  the  hell  of  war. 

"You  are  going  to  faint,"  said  Sister  Agnes  sud- 
denly. The  girl  looked  at  her  with  a  wavering  smile. 
"Why  no !"  And  then  the  room  turned  very  black, 
pricked  with  dancing  red  lights ;  she  felt  a  hand  on  her 
elbow  guiding  her  to  the  door  and  she  clung  to  the 
doorway,  fighting  the  suffocating  darkness  with  all  her 
might. 

232 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"If  they  can  live  it,  can  I  not  look  on?  I  am  all 
right,"  she  insisted  fiercely. 

"Perhaps  you  have  a  heart  trouble,"  said  Sister 
Agnes. 

Katherine  shook  her  head.    "It  is  just  the  sight " 

"I  know,"  said  the  older  woman  quietly  and  left  her. 
Presently  she  came  back.  "There  is  a  boy  here — an 
English  boy.  Both  arms  are  gone.  It  is  no  use  to 
amputate.  Will  you  take  a  letter  to  his  people?" 

So  that  day  wore  on.  By  afternoon  there  were  fewer 
and  fewer  men  brought  in.  The  battle  had  been  pressed 
over  the  hill,  beyond  the  woods,  and  the  Germans  were 
shelling  the  fields  so  fiercely  that  it  was  impossible  to 
venture  yet  after  the  wounded.  The  men  that  had 
come  knew  nothing  of  any  of  the  fight  beside  their  in- 
dividual confusion.  They  talked  of  charges  met  with 
bayonets,  of  hand  to  hand  grapples  with  cold  steel. 
"Not  many  coming  from  that  field,  nurse,"  one  boy 
said  with  a  bitter  grin. 

That  afternoon  Dr.  Thibault  came  out  of  the  opera- 
tion-room looking  as  if  he  had  come  from  a  shambles. 
Behind  him  came  Sister  Agnes.  The  front  of  her  uni- 
form was  sprayed  with  bright  arterial  blood.  Her  face 
was  'drawn  and  gray-white.  She  put  down  a  bowl  of 
bloody  water  with  hands  that  sagged. 

Katherine  sprang  for  it.  "Let  me."  Sister  Agnes 
turned  her  face  slowly  till  it  was  toward  the  doctor. 
She  articulated  "Digitalis,"  in  a  half-whisper,  then 
quietly  slid  down  on  her  knees. 

Katherine  flew  to  raise  her,  but  the  doctor's  sharp 
prohibition  checked  her  and  sent  her  after  the  medicine. 

233 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

He  knelt  quickly  beside  the  woman,  and  she  opened  her 
eyes  and  her  lips  moved.  He  bent  to  catch  the  flutter- 
ing words. 

"It  was  always  bad — but  I  thought  that  it  would  be 
strong  enough.  I  am  sorry.  .  .  ." 

Sister  Agnes  was  dead.  The  heart  that  would  have 
been  strong  enough  for  years  of  quiet  had  not  been  able 
to  meet  the  strain  she  had  put  upon  it.  ...  It  had 
done  all  it  could  do  for  France. 

"Folly,"  said  the  doctor  very  gently. 

It  was  then  that  Katherine  learned  that  Sister  Agnes 
was  the  Baroness  de  Saronne.  Her  husband  was  dead 
and  she  had  given  herself  to  France.  Somewhere  at 
the  front  was  her  only  son. 

"Take  her  place,  mademoiselle,"  Thibault  concluded 
to  Katherine.  "You  will  find  she  has  a  clean  uniform. 
Later  we  can  regularize  this,  perhaps.  Now  we  need 
you." 

In  the  unaccustomed  uniform  of  the  dead  woman, 
the  sacred  cross  about  her  arm,  Sister  Katherine  came 
into  being. 

The  deafening  roar  of  the  guns  had  grown  duller  and 
duller  as  the  battle  pressed  victoriously  farther  and 
farther  on.  Now,  by  late  afternoon,  the  roar  had  be- 
come a  rumble,  infrequent  and  rhythmic,  telling  the 
listening  ears  at  the  village  that  the  Allies  were  still 
pushing  their  battle-line.  Hurriedly  Dr.  Thibault  or- 
dered the  field  wagon  and  the  orderlies  and  stretcher- 
bearers,  that  had  been  so  long  in  readiness,  to  proceed, 
and  since  another  surgeon  had  come  to  assist  him,  he 
left  the  man  in  charge  and  went  with  the  wagon. 

234 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"He  will  go  under  fire,"  said  the  infirmiere  major  to 
one  of  her  nurses,  "yet  in  others  he  is  severest  on  a 
folly.  .  .  .  Some  day  he  will  be  brought  back.  .  .  ." 

At  the  doorway  he  was  surprised  by  a  cloaked  figure 
that  came  flying  out  of  the  shadow  to  meet  him.  Kath- 
erine  had  put  on  Sister  Agnes'  cloak  and  carried  her 
emergency  satchel.  Brusquely  he  broke  into  her  first 
words. 

"We  do  not  take  nurses  on  the  battlefields." 

"I  am  not  a  regular  nurse.  I  am  not  needed  here 
now — and  with  you  I  can  help.  I  can  lift  as  well  as 
a  man." 

"It  is  no  place  for  a  girl.     Go  back." 

She  looked  at  him  with  burning  eyes.  "If  he  is  there 
I  can  find  him.  ...  If  I  do  not  go  with  you,  I  go 
alone." 

"Are  you  serving  France  or  your  own  affair?"  he 
demanded. 

"They  are  the  same !    I  beg  of  you " 

"Get  in,  get  in,"  he  commanded  testily.  "Are  you 
to  keep  us  waiting  till  dark?" 

Swiftly  the  wagon  hurried  on  over  the  roads  to  the 
distant  sound  of  guns.  She  did  not  know  when  they 
passed  the  Bonnet  farm.  There  were  no  buildings 
standing  to  mark  it.  But  she  recognized  the  hill — her 
hill  and  Jeffrey's,  and  here  the  wagon  left  the  road 
and  pressed  up  over  the  edge  where  it  could  reach  the 
scene  of  early  conflict. 


16 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

FROM  the  plain  below  the  tide  of  battle  had  swept 
on  and  away,  leaving,  like  the  flotsam  and  jet- 
sam of  the  tide,  a  stranded,  crumpled  wreckage 
of  lives.  It  was  a  field  soaked  in  blood  and  sown  with 
human  flesh,  with  limp  bodies  and  arms  and  legs  and 
heads,  and  fragments  of  raw  meat  that  bore  no  resem- 
blance to  any  part  of  humanity. 

Here  carnage  had  taken  every  form ;  huge  pits  of 
earth  told  of  great  shells,  burying  a  score  of  men  or 
blowing  them  to  bits,  and  a  spent  rain  of  bullets  told  of 
furious  rifle  fire,  while  blood-soaked  bayonets,  some  still 
clenched  in  the  stiff  hands,  others  upright  in  the  flesh 
they  had  turned  to  clay,  were  mute  evidence  of  frenzied 
hand-to-hand  encounters,  where  men  stabbed  each  other 
to  the  death. 

Numbed  and  steeled  to  horror  as  Katherine  believed 
herself  to  have  become  in  those  grim  hours,  this  ghastly 
plain  with  its  harvest  of  human  hate  and  madness, 
seemed  more  than  a  heart  of  pity  could  endure.  She  was 
cold  and  sick  as  she  hurried  down  after  the  doctor  and 
the  Red  Cross  men,  but  the  thought  of  Jeffrey  had 
power  to  nerve  her  on.  It  was  into  this  field  that  he 

236 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

had  swept  with  the  troops  after  leaving  her,  in  the 
blackness  of  early  morning;  here  he  had  battled  and  if 
here  he  lay  hers  was  the  determination  to  find  him  and 
bring  him  back  to  care  and  safety. 

For  many  rods  there  were  no  wounded,  only  the  dead, 
but  farther  on  the  men  paused  at  the  wreck  of  a  battery 
where  shrapnel  had  blown  men  and  iron  in  a  grisly  mass 
of  wreckage,  and  beneath  a  pile  of  debris  a  man  was 
pinned,  shrieking  and  giggling  with  the  delirium  of  an- 
guish. Another  man  was  buried  until  only  the  head 
showed  and  beyond  him  a  grotesque  pair  of  heels  pro- 
truded from  the  ground,  where  the  explosion  had  buried 
a  man  head  downward.  .  .  .  They  dug  him  up.  His 
face  was  hideous  with  strangulation. 

As  they  went  on  into  the  plain  its  terrible  secrets 
showed  more  and  more,  and  the  helpers  were  so  few,  so 
pitifully  inadequate !  From  group  to  group  they  hur- 
ried, drawing  the  living  from  the  dead,  estimating  the 
chances  of  life,  sending  back  the  lightest  wounded  and 
laying  the  others  in  rows  to  wait  till  help  was  practi- 
cable, quieting  the  worst  agonies  with  precious  hypo- 
dermics. 

Katherine  soon  ceased  to  follow  the  doctor;  she  un- 
dertook her  own  explorations  and  moved  from  man  ta 
man,  feeling  herself  a  woman  in  the  grip  of  a  nightmare 
too  terrible  for  reality.  One  part  of  her  brain  seemed 
frozen  and  numb — mercifully  numb.  She  thought  that 
if  her  brain  performed  its  work,  if  she  understood  one- 
thousandth  part  of  the  horror  and  evil  that  she  saw  that 
she  would  go  mad  of  it  and  die.  She  seemed  to  be  two 
persons  in  one — the  nurse,  moving  along  that  field,  and 

237 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

the  other  something  aloft  in  the  air,  looking  down  on  it 
all,  suffering  a  heartache  that  was  a  devouring  flame. 

From  one  to  another,  she  went,  stooping  to  wipe  the 
filth  from  the  lips  of  a  boy  who  was  dying,  her  sense 
straining  to  catch  the  broken  French  words  he  gasped. 
She  wrote  them  down,  with  his  number,  then  on  to  give 
a  hypodermic  to  a  man  who  lay  bleeding,  his  abdomen 
torn  out,  his  legs  crushed.  ...  It  was  only  a  matter 
of  minutes  now  for  him ;  he  had  known  agony  for  hours. 
She  brought  water  to  the  lips  of  a  boy  whose  arms 
were  crushed,  and  water  and  a  cigarette  to  one  with 
broken  legs.  There  was  so  little  that  she  could  do. 
The  wounded  were  few  in  comparison  to  the  dead,  the 
terrible  dead,  stiff  and  stark,  with  that  grotesqueness 
which  freezes  the  blood  in  the  veins,  denuded  of  their 
dignity,  their  sacredness,  but  all  the  more  ghastly  in 
effect. 

Sometimes  she  found  men  who  had  applied  the  first 
dressing  to  their  own  wounds,  and  dragged  themselves 
to  a  place  of  refuge,  only  to  have  been  riddled  with  bul- 
lets by  a  counter-attack,  or  crushed  in  by  the  hoofs  of 
another  cavalry  charge.  Wheels  of  guns  went  over 
them;  even  their  own  troops  had  passed  across  their 
quivering  flesh. 

Often  she  stopped  and  picking  a  rifle  from  the  ground 
put  an  end  to  the  screaming  agony  of  some  horse.  Once 
she  found  a  man  sobbing  about  a  dead  white  horse,  and 
he  told  her  that  he  had  raised  her  from  a  colt  and  that 
she  had  carried  him  to  safety  before  she  dropped.  He 
added  that  he  had  a  brother  gone  down  a  little  farther 
on  and  his  neighbors  were  all  gone  too.  His  own  hand 

238 


was  shot  away  and  the  stump  tied  with  a  dirty  rag,  but 
he  did  not  seem  sensible  of  pain,  and  said  indifferently 
that  he  had  tied  the  artery.  He  refused  to  go  back  in 
the  direction  she  told  him  or  let  her  take  him,  shaking 
his  head  wilfully  at  her  and  patting  his  dead  beast. 
.  .  .  She  had  to  leave  him  there. 

The  sun  was  going  lower  and  lower,  sinking  into  a 
bank  of  cloud.  It  became  necessary  to  go  close  to  the 
shadows,  and  peer  into  the  thickets  to  be  sure  that  no 
form  lay  there.  Looking  back  over  her  shoulder  she 
found  she  had  outdistanced  the  others ;  perhaps  the  doc- 
tor had  gone  to  operate,  leaving  the  stretcher-bearers 
to  their  carrying.  Sometimes,  when  she  wanted  to 
make  sure  of  their  attention  to  an  unlikely  spot,  she 
fixed  a  strip  of  white  to  some  bayonet  and  let  it  flutter 
for  them. 

From  one  heap  of  mangled  dead  she  heard  a  smoth- 
ered groan,  and  dragged  at  the  grisly  figures  to  find 
who  still  lived  there.  From  out  the  heap  she  saw  a 
boy's  face  looking  at  her,  his  eyes  bright  with  fever. 

"Right-O !"  he  said  cheerily.  "I  can't  get  out.  Both 
arms  are  smashed  I  think." 

Something  caught  at  her  heart ;  it  was  a  moment  be- 
fore her  numbed  brain  understood.  He  had  spoken  in 
English.  She  had  come  to  the  English  companies. 

As  she  tugged  at  the  grim  thing  in  a  green-gray  uni- 
form that  sprawled  across  him,  she  asked  his  regiment. 
It  was  not  Jeffrey's.  Jeffrey's  must  be  still  beyond. 

"The  rest  of  'em  went  on  across  the  field,"  said  the 
boy.  "They  haven't  been  back.  That  was  about  sun- 
rise." He  had  been  lying  there  ever  since. 

239 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Both  his  arms  were  helpless.  She  put  her  hand  about 
his  shoulder.  "Do  you  think  you  can  walk  back,  now  ?" 
she  asked,  "or  can  you  if  I  help?" 

She  raised  him  to  a  sitting  position.  He  stared 
frowningly  at  his  own  limbs. 

"So  that's  it,"  he  said  slowly.  She  saw  that  one  foot 
was  hideously  mangled;  the  other  was  queerly  twisted. 
Silently  she  laid  him  back,  and  held  a  drink  of  water  to 
his  lips,  then  pinned  a  white  flag  beside  him. 

"I  say,  nurse."  He  looked  up  at  her  from  the  blood- 
soaked  ground.  His  face  was  gray  under  the  dried 
blood. 

"You  know  I'm  no  use  after  this,"  he  said  quickly. 
"I'm  done  for — arms  gone — legs.  ...  I  can't  hold  a 
gun  or  I  wouldn't  trouble  you.  But  won't  you  please 
put  a  gun  to  my  head?  .  .  .  Just  pull.  .  .  .  It's  sim- 
ple. .  .  .  You'd  do  it  for  a  horse.  .  .  .  Then  I  shan't 
have  to  wait  here — and  afterwards " 

She  shook  her  head  helplessly,  her  eyes  stung  by  the 
salt  of  tears  she  thought  she  had  forgotten  how  to  shed. 

"You'd  do  it  for  a  horse,  you  know,"  he  urged,  his 
eyes  begging,  like  a  pitiful  dog's.  "Come  nurse —  Oh, 
for  God's  sake !  Just  one  pull — be  a  good  fellow." 

"You'll  be  glad  I  didn't,"  she  tried  to  tell  him,  but 
the  lie  stuck  in  her  throat. 

Another  voice  called,  a  voice  of  fearful  agony  and 
delirium  and  she  went  to  see  what  she  could  do  there. 
Her  morphin  was  giving  out  and  now  she  gave  only 
water  from  the  canteens  she  found  or  a  bit  of  food  or  a 
cigarette  from  some  dead  fellow's  pockets.  One  poor 
boy,  a  German,  tried  to  tell  her  something,  but  half  his 

240 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

jaw  was  shot  away;  she  put  a  pencil  into  his  hands  and 
tried  to  help  him  trace  the  words  he  wished,  but  he  died 
as  he  wrote,  "Mein  liebe " 

She  put  away  the  paper  and  his  metal  check  of  identi- 
fication and  a  picture  that  he  carried  there  of  a  young 
girl.  Next  to  it  was  the  framed  map  of  Belgium  that 
every  German  soldier  carried  and  as  she  saw  it  and 
thought  upon  the  thousand  and  thousand  of  such  maps, 
ready  for  this  invasion  when  the  time  was  ripe,  the  misty 
sky  seemed  to  turn  red  about  her,  and  her  blood  burned. 
.  .  .  But  for  this  boy  her  heart  was  heavy.  He  had  not 
craved  a  world  empire,  poor  lad;  his  hopes  had  been, 
of  that  girl  whose  picture  he  carried,  and  of  a  home  and 
love  and  children.  .  .  .  But  he  had  been  nothing  in  the 
general  scheme. 

Through  the  waning  light  she  flitted  on  and  on,  con- 
scious of  the  two  conflicting  selves,  the  nurse  that  lin- 
gered at  each  form,  the  woman  whose  heart  was  hur- 
rying with  a  sense  of  straining  impatience.  Now  the 
men  were  all  English  and  Germans — khaki  and  gray 
uniforms  locked  in  desperate  embraces. 

"We  gave  'em  hell,"  one  trooper  gasped.  "Are — they 
— coming — soon — nurse  ?" 

Always  she  repeated  that  the  stretchers  would  be  there 
shortly,  but  she  knew  that  she  was  far  ahead  of  the  relief 
work.  She  had  wandered  miles  with  no  idea  now  of 
where  she  was.  A  bend  in  the  fields  had  long  hidden  the 
first  reaches  of  the  plain  from  her,  and  now  before  her 
was  sloping  ground  rising  unevenly  to  a  distant  wood, 
crossed  by  a  wandering  stream  marked  by  the  ruins  of  a, 
tiny  hamlet  and  a  broken  mill.  Not  a  creature  stirred 

241 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

in  the  desolation.  Not  a  voice  answered  hers  from  those 
dark  clumps  of  figures. 

Here  in  the  beet  fields  and  on  the  banks  of  the  stream 
the  carnage  had  been  terrible.  And  here  she  found  the 
uniform  of  Jeffrey's  Guards,  and  her  dread  spurred  her 
on  and  on,  up  and  down  the  rows  of  ploughed  fields, 
over  and  over  the  muddy  earth,  through  each  thicket, 
each  hedge,  each  shadowy  tangle.  She  was  not  con- 
scious of  fatigue  nor  pain,  although  her  feet  were  cut 
and  her  hands  bleeding  and  her  muscles  .wrenched  from 
their  heavy  struggles  with  the  wreckage. 

Up  the  slope  toward  the  wood  she  worked,  her  breath 
coming  in  heavy  gasps  as  she  hurried  to  outstrip  the 
coming  night.  The  bodies  were  fewer  now.  Here  the 
Guards  seemed  to  have  triumphed  and  driven  the  enemy 
before  them. 

She  stepped  around  a  dead  horse.  It  was  not  Jef- 
frey's and  no  premonition  touched  her.  Then  she  saw  a 
soldier  lying  on  his  back,  his  face  to  the  dark  sky. 

She  knew  then  that  this  was  what  she  had  foreseen, 
foreknown,  and  her  heart  seemed  to  stop  in  such  an  icy 
clutch  of  dread  that  she  thought  she  would  sink  and 
die  of  her  fear.  But  she  found  herself  bending  over 
him,  speaking  his  name.  .  .  .  His  eyes  were  closed;  but 
his  flesh  was  warm,  even  hot,  though  damp  with  the 
rain  and  wet  of  the  soaked  ground.  His  breast  was 
soaked  with  blood. 

She  touched  his  head ;  there  was  no  wound ;  the  limbs 
lay  unmangled.  But  from  that  hole  in  his  breast  the 
blood  Was  welling,  welling.  .  .  . 

She  tore  at  her  satchel  for  the  flask  of  brandy  she  had 
242 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

so  jealously  guarded  and  slipping  her  arm  under 
his  head  she  put  it  to  his  lips,  letting  a  few  drops  run 
into  his  mouth  and  down  his  throat.  .  .  .  After  a  mo- 
ment he  swallowed.  .  .  .  Slowly  his  lips  moved ;  his  eye- 
lids fluttered  upward  and  he  stared  up  at  her  with  a 
gaze  glazed  and  vague  with  pain.  .  .  .  Then  she  saw 
the  flash  of  recognition,  shot  with  incredulous  joy  and 
gladness  even  in  the  agony. 

"Jeffrey,"  she  said  with  a  sob  that  shook  her,  "Jef- 
frey— you  know  me?" 

"Katherine,"  he  whispered  faintly  and  tried  to  smile. 

"Jeffrey,  I've  found  you  again — I'll  take  care  of  you 
— I'll  save  you,"  she  promised,  and  her  heart  tightened 
and  swelled  with  a  desperate  might  of  resolution. 

A  fluttering  motion  of  one  hand  stirred  to  his  chest. 
"They've  got  me — here,"  he  said  in  that  faint,  husky 
voice,  so  weakly  articulated  that  she  strained  her  ears 
to  hear.  "The  end — after  all." 

"No — no — no — not  that !  "  Her  voice  rose  on  its 
lonely  defiance.  Then  she  calmed  herself;  she  must 
not  agitate  him. 

"Don't  give  up,  darling,  don't,"  she  besought.  "I'll 
take  care  of  you — and  help  will  come.  I've  found  you 
and  I'll  keep  you,  love " 

She  saw  in  his  eyes  an  agony  of  pain  and  of  pity  for 
her. 

"The  end — not  far  off.  I'm  going  fast,  dear.  .  .  . 
So  glad  you  came — glad,"  he  mumbled,  feeling  for  her 
hands. 

She  had  laid  him  back,  shaking  her  head  sharply  to 
clear  her  eyes  of  the  tears  that  were  pouring.  .  .  .  She 

243 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

was  furious  at  them.  What  had  she  to  do  with  tears? 
.  .  .  She  tore  away  his  shirt.  .  .  .  She  looked  into  the 
wound  from  which  protruded  the  charred  threads  of 
his  dirty  uniform.  The  flesh  was  black  and  swollen, 
and  from  a  low,  three-cornered  cut  the  drops  of  blood 
were  oozing. 

"It's  choking  me."  He  made  a  shaking  gesture  to  his 
throat.  "Can't  breathe — worse  all  the  time.  .  .  .  Noth- 
ing to  do,  dear,  nothing  to  do." 

The  realization  came  to  her  that  there  was  not.  His 
lungs  were  shattered,  flooding  with  blood.  She  looked 
at  him  one  long  minute,  then  rose  to  her  feet  and  strained 
her  eyes  down  into  the  field.  If  there  were  men  in 
sight — if  only  a  surgeon  would  come  for  that  shattered 
breast.  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  ought  to  run  and  bring  some- 
one. .  .  . 

But  as  she  stared  about  that  desolate  country,  re- 
membering the  lonely  miles  and  miles  that  she  had  hur- 
ried, she  knew  that  search  was  vain.  It  was  folly.  No 
surgeons  would  be  there.  He  would  not  live  to  be 
brought  to  them.  He  would  be  gone  before  she  got  to 
them.  .  .  .  She  need  not  leave  him.  There  was  no  hope 
to  urge  her  to  that. 

She  stood  very  still,  with  the  dying  man  at  her  feet. 
She  did  not  want  him  to  see  her  face,  in  that  moment 
when  the  certainty  of  his  death  invaded  her.  Her  heart 
ceased  to  resist  its  agony.  .  .  .  But  all  the  time  the 
utter  impossibility  of  this  thing's  happening  was  beating 
wildly  like  a  caged  bird  in  her  brain.  Other  men  might 
die — had  died  like  flies — but  not  her  own.  Not  Jeffrey. 
All  women  thought  like  that — until  the  end  came  for 

244 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

them.  Now  hers  had  come.  She  had  found  him  only  to 
lose  him.  The  end  of  the  world  had  come  to  them  there 
on  that  French  field. 

To  her  mind  it  was  absolutely  unreal.  But  her  heart 
knew. 

There  came  a  sudden  calm  of  thankfulness  that  she 
had  found  him  in  time.  This  moment  at  least  was  theirs. 

From  another's  canteen  she  brought  him  water,  and 
gave  him  more  of  the  precious  brandy;  then  stanched 
his  wound  as  best  she  could,  and  bathed  his  face 
and  lifted  his  head  into  her  lap  as  she  sat  down  beside 
him,  holding  him  so  that  he  could  breathe  easier.  She 
remembered  that  only  last  night  she  had  held  him,  be- 
lieving him  safe  then,  snatched  out  of  danger. 

"Better,"  he  said  with  his  wan  smile,  and  that  look 
in  his  eyes  that  was  only  for  her. 

She  fought  against  the  despair  that  outfaced  her. 

"Live,  Jeffrey,"  she  whispered.  "Live  for  me.  .  .  , 
We'll  pull  through — somehow." 

Faintly  came  the  answer,  after  a  long  wait.  "I— 
haven't — time — to  pretend,  dear.  .  .  .  No  use."  And 
she  felt  rebuked  for  the  pitiful  insistence  of  life  before 
the  great  realities  of  death. 

"Oh,  my  love,  my  love,"  she  breathed  in  a  quivering 
little  voice  that  fluttered  out  between  her  lips  from  her 
breaking  heart.  "My  love,  my  love." 

He  smiled  up  at  her,  then  closed  his  eyes  with  a  great 
weariness. 

She  was  grateful  that  he  did  not  seem  to  suffer.  There 
was  fever  and  pain  in  his  chest  and  his  breathing  was 
heavy  and  slow,  but  his  senses  seemed  mercifully  dulled 

245 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

by  the  shock.  She  shuddered  to  think  what  those  hours 
had  been  for  him.  .  .  .  And  over  her,  like  rolling  waves 
submerging  her  agony  and  heartbreak,  came  the 
gladness  that  she  had  found  him,  that  he  was  not  to 
die  alone  upon  the  field  of  battle,  but  that  her  arms  would 
hold  him  and  her  heart  go  with  him. 

It  was  very  dark  now.  Into  the  fields  below  a  white 
mist  had  stolen  like  a  vaporous  sea.  The  distant  guns 
were  quieter,  and  the  rhythmic  thunder  had  ceased  to 
roll,  but  often  she  heard,  far  ahead  at  her  right,  the 
sudden  scream  of  shrapnel  and  a  faint  popping  of 
rifles. 

But  in  all  that  dark  land  there  seemed  none  living  but 
herself  and  the  man  in  her  arms.  ...  It  was  stark,  un- 
real, ghastly — a  mad  scene  in  a  mad  world. 

She  was  very  quiet,  very  calm.  If  she  yielded  one 
breath  to  the  emotion  that  beat  in  upon  her  she  would 
go  mad,  she  told  herself ;  she  must  be  quiet  and  live  care- 
fully these  precious  moments. 

He  was  going  fast.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done. 
She  held  his  head  higher  and  higher,  against  her  breast. 
She  bent  her  face  close  to  his.  She  was  afraid  that  he 
would  go  from  her  as  he  slept.  With  a  woman's  futile 
passion  for  farewells  she  roused  him  to  garner  every 
moment  left  of  consciousness. 

"Dear,  was  there  anything — you  want  to  send  your 
mother?" 

His  eyes  opened  into  hers.  "Oh,  yes,  mother."  He 
spoke  with  difficulty.  "Go  to  her — tell  her — everything. 
Say  good-by — sorry.  There's  Fred  left  for  her.  .  .  . 
Love  to  them.  .  .  ." 

246 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

He  stopped,  then  his  voice  came  more  clearly.  "It's 
nearly  on  the  clock  for  me,  my  girl.  .  .  .  Oh,  Katherine, 
Katherine !"  His  eyes,  agonized,  hopeless,  looked  up 
into  hers.  "Is  it  possible?"  he  said  wonderingly,  and 
then,  "All  that  was  to  be !" 

Her  mouth  was  on  his  brow.     It  was  cold  and  damp. 

"A  kiss,"  he  whispered,  "My  lips " 

Lightly,  for  fear  of  stopping  his  fluttering  breath, 
she  touched  her  lips  to  his.  They  kissed,  their  eyes  on 
each  other's,  a  passion  of  pain  and  heartbreak  looking 
from  soul  to  soul. 

Then  he  threw  back  his  head  with  sudden  wildness, 
straightening  convulsively  in  her  arms. 

"God — I'm  dying !"  His  voice  was  thick.  "All  over 
— all — God !  .  .  .  We  must  win.  .  .  ."  He  choked.  A 
terrible  rattle  sounded  in  his  throat.  At  his  lips  foamed 
blood  and  froth. 

And  then  his  eyes  flashed  up  at  her  in  a  look  of  such 
agonized  recognition  that  it  seemed  as  if  their  spirits 
touched.  And  through  all  the  agony  was  the  smile  that 
his  eyes  had  ever  kept  for  her. 

"Dearest — good-by." 

The  light,  the  recognition,  was  gone — forever.  The 
flame  was  out.  And  over  the  boy's  features  Death 
stamped  his  strange  and  inalterable  seal,  that  gray  im- 
print of  the  other  world  which  makes  remote,  strange 
clay  of  the  intimate  flesh  within  our  arms. 

Fixed  and  sightless  his  glazed  eyes  stared  into  hers. 
His  cheek  grew  cold  against  her  breast.  His  fingers 
stiffened  in  her  clasp.  His  own  breast  no  longer  panted 

£47 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

with  its  tortuous  breath.    The  blood  flowed  no  more  but 
congealed  in  a  heavy  mass. 

Her  senses  broke  themselves  against  the  truth,  dash- 
ing her  again  and  again  upon  the  incredibility  of  her 
own  woe. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

STONILY  she  sat  there  like  the  last  stricken  figure 
of  life  in  a  world  already  dead. 

She  had  not  stirred  when  the  blackness  of  mid- 
night closed  in  about  her.  Suddenly  the  blackness  was 
lightened  by  a  faint  glow  reflected  from  far  beyond  the 
wood,  and  on  the  wind  came  the  fearful  odor  of  acrid 
flesh.  An  army  was  burning  its  dead. 

She  understood  and  her  somber  eyes  could  see  those 
dead.  And  now  she  thought  that  her  anguish  was  but 
the  anguish  of  one  woman  and  that  this  death  in  her 
arms  was  but  the  death  of  one  man,  and  she  thought 
of  all  the  dead  men  in  that  pyre  and  all  the  dead  men 
out  in  the  night  and  of  all  the  women  who  loved  them, 
and  her  own  grief  seemed  to  grow  and  expand  with  the 
feeling  of  their  pain,  till  the  burden  of  it  was  greater 
than  she  could  bear 

Then  an  anger  that  was  hot  with  all  their  angers,  hot 
as  the  licking  flames  of  that  devilish  holocaust,  burned 
through  her.  She  laid  down  her  dead  and  rose  to  her 
feet,  flinging  back  her  face  to  that  fire-tinged  sky,  her 
arms  wide,  her  breast  heaving.  Hate  was  surging 
through  and  through  her,  a  passionate  hate  of  war,  of 

249 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

the  conquest-war  that  made  murder  in  this  world,  that 
spirit  that  grasped  with  mailed  hands,  that  stabbed  and 
crushed,  that  trampled  right  and  liberty  in  the  mire, 
that  starved  women  and  babies  and  befouled  inno- 
cence and  outraged  helplessness.  Empires — thrones — 
dominions — what  rivers  of  forgotten  blood  flow 
underneath  the  rotting  crust  of  their  raped 
soils ! 

Her  hate  poured  itself  upon  the  war-spirit  of  greed 
and  cruelty  that  set  nation  against  nation  and  man 
against  man,  that  made  patriotism  a  lust  for  power  and 
flung  armies  to  the  murdering  and  thieving  that  were 
dishonor  to  the  single  man  .  .  .  the  cold  war-spirit  of 
scheming  that  moved  men  hither  and  thither,  like  pawns 
in  a  game,  to  change  the  color  of  the  little  maps  of  the 
earth  they  lived  in  ...  the  spirit  that  sells  its  brains 
for  blood  money  that  more  guns  may  deal  more  death 
.  .  .  the  spirit  that  has  ridden  down  the  world  with 
Xerxes  and  Alexander  and  Caesar,  crucifying  each 
Christ  of  pity.  .  .  . 

And  as  she  stood  there  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  all  the 
dead  men  of  the  night  were  standing,  too,  gathering 
from  the  field,  their  stark  faces  touched  with  new  un- 
derstanding, and  their  eyes  ablaze  with  stern  anger  at 
the  thing  which  had  done  them  to  death. 

She  could  see  them  all  about  her,  shadowy  troopers, 
gathering  and  gathering,  with  here  and  there  a  face  that 
she  remembered — that  of  the  boy  who  had  begged  her  to 
kill  him  and  the  German  with  his  jaw  shot  away  and  the 
French  lad  who  had  gasped  of  his  mother — these,  and  all 
that  she  had  seen  that  day  pressed  about  her,  a  darkling 

250 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

throng,  their  gray  faces  lifted  to  the  sky,  their  eyes  on 
fire.  .  .  . 

She  thought  how  many  had  turned  their  faces  to  a 
mute  heaven  for  justice.  What  God  did  they  seek  there, 
some  kind  God  of  their  mother's  prayers,  or  some  de- 
fender to  whom  they  had  chanted  war-like  hymns?  .  .  . 
What  God  could  help  them,  except  that  God  which  was 
in  their  own  hearts,  that  seed  of  pity,  that  divinity  of 
love,  which  alone  could  comprehend  and  break  the  chain 
of  human  wrong  and  fearful  habit!  .  .  .  The  God  of 
that  love  was  in  their  churches  and  on  their  lips — a 
Krupp  and  Kaiser  had  prayed  to  him  devoutly.  Bet- 
ter to  hang  between  dishonor  at  Golgotha  than  from 
an  altar  receive  the  homage  of  such  prayers ! 

There  in  the  dim  sky  before  her,  where  that  fearful 
glow  had  flickered  and  waned,  high  over  that  silent 
ghostly  throng,  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  Christ  was 
hanging,  gazing  darkly  down  upon  them,  the  pain  of 
all  the  world  in  His  face,  the  pity  of  it  in  His  eyes.  .  .  . 
And  He  was  still  upon  His  Cross,  not  risen  in  men's 
hearts.  .  .  . 

And  then  He  was  gone,  as  He  had  gone  from  the  earth 
and  the  passion  of  men,  and  the  wind  swept  suddenly 
through  the  plain  like  the  flight  of  the  souls  of  the  dead, 
wailing  aloud,  bitterly  wailing  aloud.  .  .  . 

She  was  sitting  again,  with  Jeffrey  in  her  arms.  There 
were  stars  out  now,  friendly  stars  of  healing  and  com- 
passion.    She  had  no  fear  of  that  cold  flesh  she  held — 
only  of  the  time  when  she  could  never  hold  it  more. 
17  251 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Again  and  again  her  lips  touched  its  marbling  stillness. 

Down  in  the  distant  fields  she  caught  the  flicker  of 
far-away  lights,  like  ghoulish  will-o'-the-wisps  among 
the  slain.  They  were  the  flash-lamps  of  some  Red 
Cross  aids,  but  she  did  not  cry  out.  They  would  only 
take  her  from  her  dead  and  leave  him  there. 

The  sky  darkened  and  the  stars  fled.  It  rained  in 
slant  and  drenching  torrents  that  soaked  her  to  the 
skin.  Bending  above  the  dead  man  she  tried  to  protect 
his  poor  flesh  from  the  wet.  It  ceased  and  the  air  grew 
colder. 

Slowly  a  gray  and  grudging  morning  forced  itself 
upon  the  night.  Slowly  a  wan  light  displaced  the  dark. 
A  listless  vapor  rolled  back  along  the  plain.  Every- 
thing stood  distinct  and  gray,  and  then  the  color  flick- 
ered into  the  east,  a  delicate  infusion  of  pale  pinks  and 
blues  and  greens,  mingling  in  a  lovely  gauzy  dawn,  and 
then  like  a  rotund  pursuer  of  some  fragile  girl  in  chif- 
fons a  hot  sun  panted  up  over  the  horizon  and  the  pale 
colors  fled.  The  clouds  dissolved  in  pearly  streamers, 
leaving  a  sky  of  fairest  blue.  A  golden  though  not 
brilliant  light  bathed  the  whole  plain,  where  rain  and 
dew  drops  sparkled  and  every  aspect  of  the  morning 
exhaled  innocent  freshness  and  delight.  In  the  woods 
behind  the  girl  some  little  birds  were  faintly  chirrup- 
ing ;  suddenly  they  burst  into  brief  riot  of  song. 

Morning  had  come  to  the  world  with  its  resurgent 
life.  Only  the  dead  lay  there,  untouched  by  any  day, 
incongruously  terrible  and  unchanged. 

Hours  passed.  The  sun  went  under  a  cloud  again; 
sometimes  it  rained.  Sometimes  she  lay  on  the  ground 

252 


T  N^E    SPLENDID    C  77  //  AT  r  E 

beside  the  xjtead'maiij  sometimes  she-walked  up  and  down 
to  fight  the  cramping  stiffness.  She  drank  water  and 
ate  biscuit  from  the  knapsack  of  cfcad  soldvcrs-+-^but 
the  food  of  an  invader  she  could  not  touch.  She 
watched  for  the  ambulance  corps -bat; no  one  came. 

Cannons  were  thundering  to  left  and  right  and;thfc 
faint  screaming-  of  shrapnel  told  her  that  the  tide-  of 
battle  had'  surged  in  again.  Perhaps >  she  was  cut  off 
from  her  lines.  Once  in  the  woods  behind  her  the  rat- 
tle of  riftes  sounded  like  the  tap-tap-tapping  of  drums. 
She  began  to  watch  the  wood  bat  no  one  came  out  of  jt, 
only  once  a  horse,  limping  wearily,  a  great  hole  in 'his 
side.  ;  She  rose  and  shot  him!'  'Then  she  resumed*  her 
Vigil  with  th«  dead.  ••'''  .enob  8jn»  ••' 

Now  the  wind  brought  her 'tainted  air.  .  .  .  She  be- 
gan- to  think  of  what  she  Tnus4rfd<tta  ,bnim  -jyd  rii  vl^ni 

Even  if  the 'help  came  they  might  not  spare  time  for 
this  one  poor  corpse.  Th^y- might  burn  the  bodies  or 
bury  them  in  a  connfmon •trendi.-""  f!iuov  isri  ' 

She  walked  into  the  wood  and  looked  about.  It  was 
beautiful  there,  and  peaceful.  The  fallen  leaves  lay  in 
little  damp  drifts  beneath  the  trees.  Only  the  hoof 
marks  in  the  ground  told  of  a  swift  struggle  and^A 
flight  and  these  the  rains  had  half  effaced.  She  found, 
a  soft  place,  beneath  three  trees,  near  a  boulder  of 
rock.  •  ,?.bni5(i 

It  was  hard 'to  stagger  there  with  the  dead  man  on. 
her  back  but  somehow  she  accomplished  itj  and  witk 
that  desperation  of  strength  given  to  supreme  human 
endeavor  she  dug  a  grave.  For  long  hours  she  toiled, 
with  bayonets  and  helmets  and  her  bare  hands.  .  .  . 

253 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Then  she  waited.  She  could  not  bear  to  lay  away  the 
last  sight  of  her  love. 

At  last  she  laid  him  down  in  it.  She  spread  a  hand- 
kerchief across  the  face;  she  laid  a  horse  blanket  for 
cover  over  his  uniform.  She  wished  there  was  a  flag 
to  wrap  about  him  but  no  British  colors  were  carried  into 
the  fields.  .  .  .  From  the  hands  she  drew  a  ring  and  a 
wrist  watch  as  mementoes  for  his  mother.  For  herself 
there  was  the  signet  ring  which  she  had  worn  since  that 
June  day  at  Les  Buissons.  She  put  a  ring  of  her  own 
upon  the  dead  fingers,  and  left  a  last  kiss  upon  the  lips 
and  brow. 

Handful  by  handful  the  earth  was  heaped.  It  was 
dark  when  all  was  done.  Beside  the  mound  she  lay  and 
looked  at  the  trees  and  tried  to  fix  the  location  unerr- 
ingly in  her  mind,  so  that  even  if  they  were  gone,  some 
clue  would  tell  her  of  this  place.  .  .  .  By  and  by  she 
rose  and  covered  the  grave  with  rocks  and  little  stones. 

And  all  her  youth  and  joy  were  down  there  with  him 
under  the  earth  and  stones.  Her  Jeffrey — dead. 

They  came  in  the  dawn — two  Red  Cross  bearers,  and 
some  power  of  astonishment  was  left  in  them  for  her 
story. 

"But  that  is  pitiable,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  oldest, 
looking  at  her  bleeding  hands,  her  blackened,  blood- 
soaked  uniform.  "To  have  found  your  lover — and 
buried  him !" 

With  them  she  struggled  back  to  the  hospital.  They 
were  short-handed  there.  The  Allies  had  been  successful 
in  driving  back  the  enemy,  but  the  Germans'  shells  still 

254 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

reached  them.  A  nurse  had  been  killed  before  the 
church. 

And  suddenly  it  seemed  to  Katherine  that  she,  too, 
need  not  have  to  wait  very  long  with  so  much  death 
about.  It  would  only  be  hours,  or  days,  .  .  .  and  then 
she  would  be  out  of  all  this.  Meanwhile  there  was  work. 

Dry-eyed  and  utterly  contained  Sister  Katherine  went 
about  her  nursing. 


• 

root  . 

• 

•lUOfl   3<? 

. 

CHAPTER    XXV 

ONE  two,  three,  four — she  counted  the  steps 
gaspingly.  She  could  manage  four  and  then 
she  must  stop  and  wait.  One,  two,  three,  four 
— she  began  again. 

A  door  opened  below  her  and  a  step  entered  the  hall, 
then  someone  came  up  the  stairs  behind  her  and  a  hand 
caught  her  elbow  as  she  was  clinging  to  the  rail. 

She  found  herself  looking  up  through  the  dusk  into 
the  face  of  Robert  MacNare. 

"It's  just — my  knee — "  she  said  weakly  and  sat  down 
on  the  stairs. 

He  did  not  waste  time  in  questions.  "Let  me 
take " 

"No,"  she  cried  irritably  as  he  bent  toward  her.  "I 
can — go  on.  I  can." 

He  offered  nothing  more  and  when  she  was  ready  he 
helped  her  in  silence.  At  her  locked  door  she  looked 
blankly  up  at  him.  "My  keys — I  forgot." 

He  drew  out  a  key  ring  from  his  pocket  and  fitted  one 
into  her  lock.  "Madame  Bonnet  left  hers.  She  is  still 
away." 

He  opened  the  door  and  followed  her  as  she  limped 
256 


THE   SPLENDID    CHANCE 

into  the  room,  striking  matches  arid  lighting  the  lamp, 
and  flinging  open  a  window  for  the  cool  wind  toi  come. 
rushing  into  the  airless  place. 

The  girl  on  the  edge  of  the  couch  shivered.  "It's 
cold." 

He  closed  the  window  and  went  to  the  hearth.  Then 
he  ran  downstairs  to  reappear  with  the  fuel  for  a  fire 
which  he  promptly  kindled.  "And  now  for  your  knee," 
he  said  turning  toward  her  again.  'to  o«!i: 

She  sat  unstirringly,  drawing  her  cloak  closer.  For 
the  first  time  he  noticed  what  she  wore  and  saw  the  Hed 
Cross  onier  arm. 

"It's  bandaged— it's  all  right,"  she  told  him  in  her 
slow,  tired  voice.  "But  I  walked  home  on  it.  And  that 
hurt.  And  once  I  fell." 

"Why?    Why  walk?"  he  said  savagely. 

"It  wasn't — their  fault.  I  insisted.  I  am  well 
enough.  But— I  am  tired  now.  And  then  the  train. 
That  was  too  crowded.  All  wOundedl"  -iq  < 

"So  you've  been  nursing  all  this  month?" 

"Yes." 

He  made  no  comment.  He  had  not  seen  nor  heard 
from  her  since  that  October  morning  when  she  had  bade 
him  a  hurried  farewell  as  she  ran  eagerly  after  madame 
on  her  way  to  the  station.  Now  November  was  beginning. 

"Dr.  Thibault  was  there,"  she  said  suddenly.  "He 
had  the  hospital.  Wasn't  that  strange?" 

"Yes.  But  you're  too  tired  to  talk,"  he  answered,  as 
she  might  have  told  one  of  her  own  patients.  "Take  off 
your  things  and  lie  down  and  when  I  come  back  I'll 
bring  some  more  food  and  something  to  eat." 

257 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"You  needn't.  I'm  quite  right  now,"  she  said  dully, 
but  he  made  no  response.  And  like  an  exhausted  child 
she  dropped  back  against  the  dusty  gray  and  yellow 
cushions  without  stirring.  For  three  weeks  she  had 
worked  like  some  silent,  tireless  automaton;  suddenly 
something  had  snapped.  Her  will  flagged.  The  hurt 
to  her  knee — nothing  serious,  only  a  cut  from  a  flying 
bit  of  wood — in  depriving  her  of  activity  had  deprived 
her  also  of  that  strange  momentum  of  activity.  She 
felt  stopped.  She  felt  as  if  she  could  never  go  on  again. 

Presently  MacNare  came  back,  and  very  quietly  and 
matter-of-factly  as  if  she  were  little  Peggy,  he  set 
<'ibout  making  her  comfortable,  taking  off  her  cloak  and 
dusty  shoes,  bringing  her  wet  towels  and  dry  ones,  find- 
ing a  thick  blanket  to  spread  over  her  and  building  a 
bright  blaze  upon  the  hearth.  From  out  her  thin  face, 
her  big  eyes  followed  him  about  with  a  dumb,  sick  wist- 
fulness.  There  was  comfort  in  the  simple  humanness 
of  his  presence.  When  he  brought  her  a  tray  from  a 
neighboring  cafe  she  tried  to  eat  and  found  herself 
hungry. 

But  the  inevitable  associations  of  that  room  were 
speaking  to  her.  Through  all  her  clogged  and  numbed 
exhaustion  the  realization  forced  itself  home.  She  had 
not  died  out  there;  she  had  lived  through  days  and 
nights  of  nightmare,  and  now  she  was  here,  quite  well, 
but  for  that  knee,  quite  young — and  facing  the  life  that 
was  to  be  lived. 

In  her  big,  haggard  eyes  the  weak  tears  suddenly 
brimmed.  She  looked  up  at  him,  one  thin  hand  reaching 
pitiably  to  him  from  the  blue  blanket. 

258 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"He's  dead.  .  .  .  He's  dead.  .  .  .  They've  killed 
him." 

MacNare  dropped  into  a  chair  beside  her,  taking  that 
poor,  clinging  hand  in  silence.  After  these  past  weeks 
he  had  not  thought  that  life  could  deal  him  further  pain, 
but  now  it  seemed  that  there  were  still  quivering  sensi- 
bilities for  the  ingenious  devils  to  play  on.  .  .  .  That 
she  should  not  be  spared !  That  she,  of  all  brightness, 
should  be  broken  on  the  wheel.  .  .  . 

The  old  rage  welled  in  him ;  the  muscles  of  his  neck 
knotted;  the  veins  in  his  forehead  swelled.  He  wished, 
like  Alceste>  for  the  gods  of  this  world  to  have  one  neck 
that  he  might  wring  it.  ^ 

Then  infinite  weariness  succeeded  the  futile  rage.  Tcr 
what  end — what  end? 

He  said  dully,  "It  hardly  seems  worth  while  to  have 
made  us  for  all  this — does  it?" 

She  answered  quiveringly,  "But  it  could  all  be  so 
right!" 

"A  little  too  much  cannibal  in  the  blood,"  he  mut- 
tered. 

She  did  not  tell  him  any  more  then.  She  was  too 
tired  for  words  and  yet  she  could  not  sleep.  She  clung 
tightly  to  his  hand  as  he  sat  there  beside  her  in  the  fire- 
light, that  died  slowly  down  till  shadows  and  darkness 
possessed  the  room. 

And  then  suddenly  she  began  to  talk,  to  tell  him  of 
the  fight,  of  her  search,  of  the  long  hours  with  her  dead. 
Not  one  word  of  her  own  loss  had  crossed  her  lips  since 
the  day  she  came  again  to  the  hospital,  and  never  again 
did  she  tell  to  anyone  what  she  told  this  grim,  silent  man 

259 


THE  >S PL&NDTD    C  II A  AT  C  E 

beside  her  in  the  darkness,  but  in  her  weakness  the'niisery 
of  her  soul  overflowed  and  poured  out  to  him.  Brokenly, 
haltingly,'  the  grim  story  came.  All  the  dumb/horrors 
that  had  pressed  upon  her  strove  for  utterance. 

"Those  dead— those  dead,"  she  said  over  again,  in 
her  hoarse,  tired  voice.  "They  burned  them  in  the 
nights — they  tied .  them,  together  like  cords  and 
stacked  -them  to  be  carried  out.  .  -J  j-Arid  always 
some  woman.  .  .  .  Some  Woman  is  waiting.  .  .  ." 

He  had  no  words.     His  heart  bled  for  her. 

Once  or  twice  he  thought  she  slept* 'Biit  when  he 
Stirred  to  throw  a  new  log  upon  the  fire  she  would  be 
instantly  alert,  her  haggard  eyes  .searching1  for  him 
through  the  dusk. 

Sometimes  she  put  a  fitful  question.  Howi  was  the 
hospital?;  T.hatrwas  moved,  he  told  her.  A  new  build- 
ing near  by  had  been  given  where  there  could  be  space 
for  operations. 

"So  you're  downstairs  again?" 

"Yes."  rii  l-fidinnBo  nSi/m  oo.!  !>liii:- 

"All  alone  here?" 

"All  alone."  -  torn  yjn&  mid  Ifai  Jon  bib  od£ 

"How  is  Peggy?    Won't  she  be  missing  you- " 

"She  isn't  here." 

"You've  sent  her  away?" 

He  nodded. 

"Then  you're  quite  alone,"  she  muttered,  and  added, 
"Were  you  afraid?" 

"Yes."  .wov/  -KV 

She  barely  heard  him.  "They'll  never  get  here  now," 
she  whispered.  "That— living1  sacrifice- — has  saved 

260 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

France."  And  then  she  began  to  whisper  again  about 
that  sacrifice,  telling  him  incessantly  of  those  pitiful 
things  that  seared  her  brain  and  heart. 

It  was  a  strange  night.  Alone  in  that  empty  house 
those  two  sat  clinging  to  each  other  like  two  ship- 
wrecked souls  upon  some  raft.  At  last  he  was  sure  that 
she  slept,  and  when  an  hour  went  by  and  she  did  not  stir 
nor  wake  he  tiptoed  quietly  away  and  left  her. 

It  was  noon  when  she  awaked,  to  the  clear  brightness 
of  her  empty  room.  She  stared  about  her,  aware,  with 
returning  consciousness,  of  some  numb,  pressing  weight, 
some  deadly  heaviness.  ...  It  was  a  full  minute  before 
memory  came  back,  cutting  like  knives.  She  knew  then 
what  that  weight  was.  .  .  . 

The  merciful  exhaustion  of  the  night  had  passed. 
Sleep  in  refreshing  her  body  had  given  her  back  to 
the  torment  of  her  mind.  .  .  .  She  lay  there  and  re- 
membered how  eight  months  before  she  had  come  to  that 
room,  eager,  ambitious,  gay.  .  .  .  Since  then  she  had 
lived  what  had  been  her  life.  .  .  . 

Soon  after  her  first  steps  across  the  floor  a  knock 
sounded  and  she  found  MacNare  at  her  door  with  a 
tray  of  breakfast. 

"You  are  kind,"  she  said  gratefully,  lifting  those 
great  eyes  of  hers  from  which  all  the  brightness  had 
been  washed  by  those  deep  tears.  His  face  shocked  her. 
It  was  not  only  that  he  was  thin  and  white — so  white 
that  the  black  of  his  eyes  and  hair  was  startling  in  its 
contrast,  but  some  terrible  change  had  passed  over  his 
face  leaving  it  old  and  drawn  and  gaunt.  It  was  like  the 

261 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

skeleton  faces  of  suffering  that  had  looked  up  at  her 
from  so  many  fever  beds. 

"You  are  ill,"  she  said  abruptly. 

He  shook  his  head  and  left  her,  telling  her  to  rest. 

All  that  day  she  stayed  in  her  room.  There  were 
letters  from  her  family  on  the  dusty  floor  where  they 
had  been  thrust  under  the  door,  but  she  did  not  read 
them  at  once.  From  Les  Buissons  she  had  sent  them 
one  or  two  brief  notes  saying  that  she  was  helping  with 
the  nursing  there  and  saying  no  more ;  now  she  sat  down 
at  her  table  and  commenced  to  write,  struggling  for  the 
pitiful  comfort  of  telling  them.  .  .  .  Then  she  leaned 
back,  her  face  tense.  .  .  .  She  opened  their  letters  and 
began  to  read. 

It  was  too  soon  for  them  to  answer  her  notes  from  Les 
Buissons ;  they  were  still  concerned  with  her  presence  in 
Paris  and  troubled  for  her  safety.  The  papers  were 
full  of  an  air  raid.  They  wanted  her  to  come  home  for 
Thanksgiving,  and  discussed  routes  with  anxiety,  for 
fear  of  mines.  Italy,  they  thought,  was  safest.  Every- 
one was  deeply  stirred  over  the  war.  Everyone  was 
sick  at  heart  for  Belgium. 

So  the  letters  ran,  in  artless  comments  and  honest  in- 
dignation and  sympathies,  with  little  details  of  the  home, 
the  commencement  of  the  professor's  fall  work,  the  ac- 
counts of  new  students,  a  new  cook,  a  new  dress.  And 
the  boys  were  growing  so  and  missed  her  dreadfully. 
If  she  was  helping  they  would  not  take  her  away,  but 
she  must  not  go  into  danger  and  she  must  come  home 
soon. 

Katherine  sat  there  a  long  time,  her  letters  in  her 
262 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

hand.  She  could  see  her  home,  see  her  mother  standing 
waiting  in  the  door  for  her  as  when,  a  careless,  happy 
girl,  she  used  to  come  across  the  campus  with  flying 
feet.  Some  maples  would  still  be  flaming.  The  leaves 
would  be  all  heaped  and  scuffly  in  the  paths.  .  .  .  She 
thought  of  the  sodden  leaves  in  that  wood  where  she  had 
left  Jeffrey.  .  .  .  And  then  she  thought  of  the  bright- 
ness in  those  home  faces. 

The  letter  begun  to  them  was  torn  into  small  bits. 
No,  she  could  not  write  them  now,  she  could  not  fling 
into  their  unsuspecting  lives  the  bitterness  of  her  grief. 
When  she  was  with  them  again,  when  they  could  help 
her.  .  .  .  But  now,  to  fret  her  mother,  to  worry  her 
father's  serene  and  gentle  heart — no,  she  would  not  do 
that. 

The  weakness  of  the  night  had  passed.  There  had 
grown  in  the  girl  a  new  strength,  a  very  gallant  cour- 
age. She  comprehended  pain.  She  could  not  bear 
to  deal  it.  And  since  her  family  did  not  know  of  her 
love  for  Jeffrey,  since  he  was  only  a  name  to  them, 
someone  she  had  met  on  the  boat  and  seen  later  in  Paris, 
her  letter  would  be  a  needless  bolt  out  of  the  blue. 

So  she  postponed  that  writing.  Later — when  she  had 
seen  Jeffrey's  mother. 

From  Les  Buissons  she  had  sent  a  note  to  Mrs.  Edger- 
ton  telling  her  of  Jeffrey's  death.  Now  she  wrote  again, 
saying  that  she  was  coming  to  London  and  would  meet 
her  to  tell  her  all  the  story.  She  knew  how  that  poor 
mother  must  be  yearning  to  hear.  She  thought  of  Jef- 
frey's words,  "Go  to  mother.  Tell  her — everything," 
with  a  deep  longing  for  the  fulfillment  of  that  telling. 

263 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

She  would  tell  her  everything.  Their  sorrow  was  one 
sorrow.  And  they  could  talk  together  of  Jeffrey — she 
could  go  with  her  to  that  home  Jeffrey  had  pictured  and 
in  the  sheltering  peace  of  those  old  gardens  and  quiet 
walks  she  could  live  for  a  while  in  the  scenes  that  he  had 
loved  and  in  the  memories  of  the  happiness  that  he  had 
once  given  her. 

She  longed  for  the  solace  of  his  mother  and  his 
mother's  love  as  a  spent  runner  longs  for  his  goal.  If 
she  could  once  be  there,  she  thought,  be  with  those  who 
knew  and  loved  Jeffrey  where  she  could  hear  of  him  and 
dream  of  him — then  something  of  peace  might  come. 

After  posting  the  letter  she  crossed  limping  to  the 
cremerie,  for  her  evening  meal,  and  saw  that  the  little 
woman  there  wore  black.  She  recalled  the  young  hus- 
band who  was  gone,  a  plump,  obliging  man  with  a  quick 
smile  and  a  vast  pride  in  his  young  bride  and  his  clean 
place,  and  his  own  special  tarts  a  cerises.  How  strange 
a  mark  for  tragedy  ! 

She  said  something  of  gentle  sympathy  to  the  young 
widow.  The  woman  made  a  vaguely  deprecating  ges- 
ture, apathetic  almost  in  the  inclusiveness. 

"There  are  so  many  of  us,"  she  said. 

She  asked  after  Madame  Bonnet,  reporting  that  little 
Jeanne  and  Thomas,  left  in  a  neighbor's  care,  were 
well. 

Katherine  thought  that  Madame  Bonnet  would  re- 
turn shortly  with  Marie  and  her  baby  girl. 

"It  is  well  that  they  were  not  here,"  said  the  little 
woman.  "Otherwise  they  would  have  been  up 

there " 

264, 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"Up  where?" 

The  woman  betrayed' a  faint  surprise  at  the  blankness 
of  Katherine's  look.  "But  in  those  upper  rooms !  .  .  . 
Is  it  possible  you  have  not  heard?" 

"I  but  came  last  night.    What  is.  the  matter?" 

"And  you  have  not  looked?  .  .  .  Nor  seen  the  poor 
monsieur?" 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  him.    But  he  has  not  said " 

"Regard,  if  you  please." 

Katherine  turned  and  followed  the  other's  gesture. 
And  then  she  saw  what  she  had  not  yet  lifted  her  eyes 
to  observe,  that  the  upper  story  of  the  studio  building 
had  suffered  some  collapse,  and  was  now  patched  with 
new  repairs  and  replacements. 

"And  mademoiselle  has  not  heard!"  the  woman  re- 
peated with  a  ghost  of  her  old  vivacity.  Then  she 
sighed.  "The  poor  little  one !" 

A  ghastly  premonition  began  to  stir.  "Not — not 
Peggy — Marguerite?  What  happened ?  The " 

"The  Zeppelins?  What  else?  They  came  at  night — 
that  night  of  the  eleventh,  and  bomb  after  bomb — it  was 
terrible !  And  one  of  the  first  went  through  that  roof. 
The  monsieur  was  upon  one  side  of  the  room — the  child 
in  her  cot  on  the  other.  .  .  .  He  was  hurled  against 
the  wall,  that  was  all.  .  .  .  But  she !" 

The  young  woman  shuddered.  "They  say  that  it  was 
beyond  anything.  The  father  had  to  look  for  her, 
mademoiselle,  to  pick  her  up  bit  by  bit.  ...  I  must 
not  think  of  it.  ...  He  buried  her  that  Sunday.  And 
now  he  lives  down  there  again — for  they  moved  the  hos- 
pital the  next  day  into  a  more  commodious  place  that 

265 


was  given — and  he  lives  like  some  wild  animal  in  his 
den,  coming  and  going,  getting  his  food,  shutting  him- 
self up  in  the  daytime  and  stirring  out  at  night  through 
the  dark  streets.  .  .  .  My  heart  aches  for  him." 

Katherine  did  not  answer.  She  crossed  that  street 
on  flying  feet ;  with  shaking  hands  she  knocked  upon  the 
door  of  the  studio  and  when  no  answer  came  she  knocked 
again  sharply,  calling  out. 

She  heard  bars  withdrawn  and  pushing  open  the  door 
she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  Robert  MacNare. 
In  that  first  look  she  saw  that  he  knew  that  she  had 
heard,  and  then  he  half  turned  away  as  if  dreading  her 
words.  Her  hands  went  out  and  clutched  at  his  arm. 
"Oh,  you — you  too!" — she  faltered  and  then  all  words 
failed.  Her  voice  lodged  in  her  throat.  Dry,  gasping 
sobs  shook  her.  She  leaned  her  head  against  the  hands 
that  were  clutching  his  arm  and  clung  there  shaking 
convulsively. 

A  shudder  ran  through  the  man ;  he  stiffened  against 
her,  staring  away.  And  then  very  tragically  all  the 
stark  fighting  strength  wilted  from  him;  his  big 
shoulders  sagged  and  he  bowed  above  her,  his  breath 
coming  in  great  tearing  gasps. 

It  frightened  her  from  her  own  abandon.  "Oh,  what 
a  weak  fool  I  am  to  come  to  you  like  this !  But  Oh,  my 
dear,  my  dear " 

Her  hands  relaxed  and  he  turned  from  her  shakingly 
and  stumbled  into  a  chair  where  he  sat  huddled,  fighting 
for  that  grim  control  which  the  girl's  passionate  pity 
had  overthrown.  His  brain  was  foaming  again  with 
blood  and  horror  as  on  that  night  of  death.  But  in  a 

266 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

moment,  it  seemed,  he  drew  himself  up  and  turned  to 
her  the  bleak,  set  face  of  a  man  who  faces  something 
quite  unalterable. 

"You  see,  I  go  a  little  mad  at  times,"  he  said  huskily. 
"But  you — you  must  not  take  it  like  that " 

He  came  to  her  as  if  he  would  put  his  hand  on  her 
shaking  shoulder,  then  he  turned  aside  and  began  hunt- 
ing on  a  table  for  a  pipe.  "There  is  nothing  to  be 
said." 

"Have  you  had  dinner?"  she  unexpectedly  demanded. 

He  looked  about  vaguely.     "I?  .  .  .  Have  you?" 

"No,"  she  denied  promptly.  "Will  you  come  with 
me?" 

"Can  you  go — on  that  knee?  I'll  bring  you  some- 
thing." 

"No,  we'll  go.  My  knee  is  quite  right.  We'll  go 
somewhere  where  there  is  a  little  light  and  very  few 
people.  Please,  dear  Surly  Man." 

As  she  waited  till  he  found  his  hat  and  coat  she  no- 
ticed a  revolver  lying  casually  among  the  pipes  and 
books  upon  his  dusty  table.  She  wondered,  very  piti- 
fully, why  he  had  happened  not  to  blow  out  his  brains. 
She  thought  that  his  despair  was  the  kind  to  cut  its 
way  out  ...  in  some  black  moment.  .  .  .  She  did  not 
know  that  two  things  only  had  lowered  that  loaded  gun 
from  the  throbbing  temple  that  so  ached  for  surcease  of 
its  memories.  And  one  thing  was  that  he  was  waiting 
for  news  of  her  safety.  And  the  other  thing  was  that  he 
preferred  for  that  revolver  muzzle  some  other  temple — 
some  temple  in  a  green-gray  uniform.  Now  this  second 
thing  was  still  deferred  on  her  account.  For  MacNare 
18  4  267 


THE   SPLENDID    CHANCE 

forgot  himself  in  a  compassion  for  her  that  was  born 
out  of  his  old  love  for  her  and  yet  greater  than  it,  for 
now  his  sorry  heart  neither  hoped  nor  despaired,  asking 
only  to  shelter  her  a  little,  to  help  her  over  this  first 
difficult  place,  to  spend  himself  in  what  service  and  com- 
fort he  could  give.  .  .  .  He  had  never  loved  her  in  the 
blossoming  of  all  her  bright  loveliness  as  he  loved  her 
now,  wan  and  weak  and  grieving,  but  his  love  was  in- 
finitely different,  infinitely  deeper.  Her  sorrow  was  a 
bond  to  him  in  his  sorrow.  He  would  have  given  his 
life,  that  poor,  unhappy,  tormenting  life  of  his,  given 
it  up  in  tortures,  gladly,  if  he  could  have  brought  back 
to  her  that  brave  young  boy  whom  he  remembered  as  a 
triumphant  god  of  youth.  .  .  .  And  still  he  thought 
of  him  as  one  of  life's  lucky  ones.  For  into  his  soldier's 
grave  he  had  taken  her  love  with  him,  ...  he  had 
known  it  to  the  last. 

That  night  she  told  him  that  she  was  going  to  Lon- 
don, as  soon  as  her  knee  was  well,  to  Jeffrey's  mother, 
and  he  answered  that  they  would  go  together  as  he  had 
business  to  arrange  in  London,  too. 

"Mrs.  Grundy  is  too  busy  for  gossip,"  he  added,  with 
the  ghost  of  his  sardonic  smile.  "We  can  be  cousins  of 
a  sort ;  you  know  you  shouldn't  travel  alone  now." 

She  accepted  his  escort  with  a  gratefulness  that  yet 
fell  short  of  real  appreciation.  She  was  engrossed  in 
thoughts  of  Jeffrey's  mother.  If  she  could  only  reach 
her,  only  open  her  heart  to  her,  then  perhaps  she  would 
feel  less  miserably  forlorn.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  gray  crossing  and  a  dim  landing.  Neither;  of 
268 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

the  two  travelers  had  much  to  say  to  each  other,  yet  she 
felt  his  silent  presence  as  a  comfort. 

In  London  he  found  her  an  old  family  hotel  of  the  old 
type,  and  for  himself  he  took  a  quiet  place  around  the 
corner.  She  had  telegraphed  to  Edgerton  Hall,  and 
Mrs.  Edgerton  replied  that  she  would  reach  town  and 
call  upon  her  that  next  afternoon,  and  all  that  day  she 
waited  with  quickening  expectancy. 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

THE  drawing-room  was  long  and  narrow  with  two 
high  windows  at  one  end.  As  Katharine  came 
forward  into  the  room,  her  heart  hurrying  with 
an  excitement  she  had  not  forgotten  she  could  feel, 
a  tall,  slender  figure  in  deep  mourning  rose  from 
one  of  the  chintz-covered  chairs  and  held  out  a 
quick  hand. 

"Miss  King?" 

There  was  a  trace  of  Jeffrey  in  the  swift  motion  and 
the  turn  of  the  head,  but  only  a  trace.  The  mother's 
features  were  softer  and  not  so  clear  cut,  and  the  blue 
of  her  eyes  was  paler  and  blurred  now  as  if  by  secret 
tears.  It  was  a  delicate  but  not  a  weak  face ;  she  was 
stricken  but  there  was  something  proud  and  fine  in  her 
grief,  shining  out  with  that  indomitable  look  of  race 
that  Jeffrey  had  worn. 

"You  are  the  nurse  who  was  with  my  son?" 

Katherine  knew  then  that  Jeffrey  had  left  his  mother 
uninform'ed,  as  she,  herself,  had  bidden,  and  that,  as  yet, 
she  was  but  a  stranger  to  her,  a  messenger  from  him. 
At  the  instant  she  became  aware  of  another  figure  which 
had  risen  behind  the  mother,  that  of  a  young  girl  also 

270 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

in  deep  black,  a  sweet-looking  little  creature  with  wist- 
ful violet  eyes  and  a  weakly  pretty  mouth. 

"I  was  acting  as  nurse — then  and  afterwards.  I  am 
not  a  real  member  of  the  corps,"  Katherine  answered 
slowly.  She  wished  that  the  girl  were  not  there ;  she  had 
not  thought  of  Mrs.  Edgerton's  bringing  anyone  with 
her.  Yet  it  was  very  natural.  The  girl  smiled  rather 
shyly  upon  her  and  Mrs.  Edgerton,  as  if  remembering 
her,  murmured  that  she  had  brought  Miss  Harcombe,  a 
close  friend,  with  her. 

"Please  tell  us — everything,"  she  said  as  they  sat 
down. 

She  had  the  air  of  one  who  steels  herself  to  endure — 
and  to  conceal  a  grief  too  sacred  for  the  public  eyes. 
"How  was  he  hurt?"  she  asked,  as  Katherine  hesitated. 

It  had  become  hard  for  Katherine  to  speak.  She  was 
conscious  of  that  girl  before  her,  leaning  forward  with 
upraised  eyes. 

"I  wrote  you  what  day  it  was,"  she  began.  "I  was  at 
the  hospital  at  Les  Buissons,  where  I  had  taken  the  place 
of  a  nurse  who  died.  .  .  .  The  day  before  the  Germans 
had  captured  the  village,  but  the  Allies  made  a  night 
attack  and  retook  it,  driving  the  Germans  as  far  back 
as  they  could.  There  was  a  terrible  battle  from  mid- 
night all  through  the  next  day.  ...  In  the  afternoon 
we  went  out  on  the  field  to  find  the  wounded." 

"And  he — was  there?"  the  mother  prompted. 

"Yes — he  was  there."  Katherine  looked  past  her, 
seeing  again  that  desolate  plain  beneath  the  lowering 
sky.  .  .  .  She  saw  Jeffrey  lying  there  bleeding.  .  .  . 
"He  was  far  away,"  she  said  in  a  very  low  voice,  "and 

271 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

I  was  all  alone  when  I  got  to  him,  and  it  was  dusk.  And 
for  him  it  was — too  late — to  do  anything.  .  .  .  He  had 
been  stabbed  in  the  chest." 

Very  slowly  she  went  on,  choosing  her  words  with  diffi- 
culty, speaking  of  his  wound,  of  his  lack  of  suffering  at 
the  last,  of  his  high  courage.  .  .  . 

A  silence  fell.  The  mother  was  breathing  heavily, 
•with  tight-shut  lips,  in  her  face  that  look  of  anguished 
but  exalted  suffering  that  a  martyr  might  wear.  Her 
eyes  were  remote.  Perhaps  she  saw  again  the  panorama 
of  her  boy's  life,  his  babyhood,  his  merry  youth,  his 
pride  in  his  first  uniform. 

Then  her  glance  came  back  to  the  American  girl  with 
startled  remembrance.  "It  was  very  good  of  you,  Miss 
King,  to  have  stayed  with  him.  .  .  .  Did  he  talk  much? 
What  did  he  say?  There  must  have  been — last  mes- 
sages." 

"He  was  very  weak,"  said  Katherine.  "He  said — • 
very  little." 

"But  that  little  ?"  The  older  woman  spoke  with  un- 
conscious authoritativeness  as  though  this  unknown  girl 
before  her  were  holding  back  a  priceless  possession. 
"There  must  have  been  messages  to  me — and  to  Miss 
Harcombe,"  she  added,  turning  to  the  young  creature 
with  her  who  was  wiping  away  the  flowing  tears.  "He 
would  speak  of  her  as  Violet.  If  my  son  had  lived — " 
Her  voice  quivered  and  she  exchanged  with  the  weeping 
girl  a  look  of  tender  and  sad  understanding. 

Katherine  sat  very  still,  her  head  bent,  her  tense 
fingers  clasped  in  the  folds  of  her  black  gown.  No  use 
to  protest  to  herself  that  she  did  not  know  what  she 

272 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

could  do — she  knew  to  dreariness !  She  could  have 
laughed  aloud  for  the  ironic  misery  of  it.  ... 
Her  dreams  of  casting  herself  into  this  mother's 
arms — of  taking  a  daughter's  place  in  her  life! 
Her  dreams  of  memories  in  the  shelter  of  Jeffrey's 
gardens ! 

She  could  not  tell  her  story.  She  could  not  strip  from 
that  slight,  weakly  trusting  little  thing  the  pitiful 
solace  of  her  poor  little  romance-of-what-might-have- 
been ;  she  could  not  rob  her  of  the  dignity  of  her  real 
sorrow.  ...  It  did  not  matter  that  the  girl  had  built 
falsely.  It  did  not  matter.  Perhaps  she  truly  believed 
— had  been  led  to  believe 

Something  seemed  to  be  happening  to  herself — she 
could  not  stop  to  discover  what  it  was.  They  were  ask- 
ing her  things  and  she  had  to  be  very,  very  careful  or 
she  would  hurt  them.  .  .  .  What  was  that  was  asked? 
Oh,  yes,  his  last  messages. 

Slowly,  trying  to  gain  time,  "He  spoke  of  his  wound, 
saying  that  it  was  no  use,  that  he  knew  he  must  go.  He 
said  it  was  too  late  to  pretend.  He  said,  'It's  nearly  on 
the  clock  for  me,'  and — and  just  after  that  he  said,  'We 
must  win.'  He  told  me  to  go  to  you — to  tell  you  every- 
thing." Heavily  the  words  fell  from  her  lips.  She  did 
not  raise  her  eyes.  "He  sent  you  his  love — and  good- 
by." 

"And — and — did  he  say — "  The  girl  was  leaning 
forward,  her  wistful  eyes  drowned  in  tears,  her  lips 
quivering. 

Katherine  closed  her  eyes  a  moment.  She  was  think- 
ing of  that  kiss,  that  last  kiss.  The  supreme  agony  of 

273 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

those  dying  moments  threatened  to  rise  above  her  like  a 
sea.  She  longed  to  spring  up  and  cry  out  to  them, 
"No,  no — he  was  mine,  mine,  mine !  Once  I  saved  him, 
and  at  the  last  I  came  to  him.  He  died  loving  me — and 
I  shall  live  in  that  love  forever." 

But  she  knew  that  she  was  strong  enough  to  find,  even 
for  this  girl,  the  kind  lie  that  would  comfort. 

"It  might  have  been,  'Vi',"  she  half  whispered,  "and 
then — good-by !" 

She  felt  shamed  when  she  had  said  it,  as  if  she  had 
stained  the  purity  of  the  truth  of  that  dying  hour.  She 
was  not  repaid  by  the  light  that  came  into  the  girl's, 
face.  Her  own  light  seemed  extinguished  forever.  .  .  . 
And  down  the  way  that  she  had  come  in  those  moments 
there  was  no  returning. 

"And  his — last  words  ?"  said  the  mother. 

"He  said— good-by." 

In  the  long  silence  they  thought  their  different 
thoughts  of  the  dead.  Then  the  mother  spoke.  It 
seemed  as  if  no  voice  could  withstand  the  strain  she  put 
upon  it,  but  hers  was  unwavering,  only  a  little  hesitant. 
"And — the  body?  Is  there  any  way  that  we  could  get 
— later — perhaps  ?" 

"He  is  buried  in  a  wood.  Alone.  ...  If  the  trees 
stand  I  could  find  the  place  again." 

"Surely — if  he  had  been  carried  to  camp — I  would 
have  paid  anything — 

"They  could  not  have  carried  him  back  to  camp. 
They  were  digging  trenches  and  putting  them  all  to- 
gether— pouring  in  quicklime."  Katherine  gave  the 
naked  facts  dully.  Her  auditors  flinched. 

274 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Something  else  recurred  to  her.  "I  have  some  keep- 
sakes for  you.  I  will  bring  them." 

She  had  left  them  in  her  room,  having  meant  to  bring 
the  mother  to  that  seclusion  before  giving  her  the  relics 
of  her  boy,  but  now  she  rose  and  went  for  them,  leaving 
the  slender,  straight  figure  tensely  upright  in  the  in- 
congruously gay  chintz  chair,  with  that  other  drooping 
little  figure  beside  it,  crying  softly. 

In  her  room  she  unlocked  her  treasure  box  and  took 
out  the  ring  and  the  wrist-watch  and  the  pocketbook  and 
the  writing  things  and  carried  them  downstairs  and  put 
them  silently  into  the  other  woman's  hands.  She  saw 
the  mother's  chin  quiver  as  she  looked  down  on  those 
poor  relics  of  her  boy  that  was  gone,  and  when  Mrs. 
Edgerton  raised  her  eyes  Katherine  felt  in  their  remote- 
ness that  utter  withdrawal  of  the  human  spirit  into  its 
incommunicable  grief. 

Miss  Harcombe  began  to  sob  aloud.  "Violet,  dear, 
you  must  not.  Remember  what  we  have  to  be  proud  of." 
Mrs.  Edgerton  spoke  with  quiet,  restraint,  still  looking 
down  upon  her  relics.  "Some  of  these — but  later." 
She  put  the  things  away  carefully  in  a  black  bag  she 
carried  and  turned  to  Katherine.  "His  sword?  Did 
anyone  think  of  that?" 

"It  was  buried  with  him." 

"They  sent  me  his  father's  from  South  America."  It 
was  not  reproach  but  wistfulness  that  spoke.  ...  So 
twice  to  this  slender,  delicate  woman  had  come  those 
poor  relics  out  of  the  silence — once  for  her  husband  and 
once  for  her  son. 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  had  known — had  thought !" 
275 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

The  sad  pity  of  the  cry  brought  Mrs.  Edgerton's 
eyes  to  Katherine,  and  from  out  her  remoteness  her  at- 
tention concentrated  a  moment  on  this  girl  before  her 
who  had  been  the  comforter  of  her  dying  son.  How 
young  she  was  and  how  pretty  .  .  .  but  such  pale,  thin 
cheeks,  and  such  dark  shadows,  like  bruises,  about  her 
big,  sorrowful  eyes.  .  .  .  She  must  have  been  see- 
ing terrible  things  .  .  .  going  about  a  battlefield 
seeking  the  wounded.  .  .  .  Fleetingly  she  wondered 
about  her. 

"You  are  an  American?"  she  questioned. 

"Yes."  The  girl's  lips  closed  sharply  over  further 
speech  that  might  be  too  revealing.  Perhaps  Mrs. 
Edgerton  knew  of  Jeffrey's  going  to  Paris  to  see  some 
American.  .  .  .  She  was  looking  very  attentively  at  her 
now,  as  if  remembering  something.  .  .  .  But  if  the 
mother's  mind  raised  any  questions  she  did  not  seek  an 
answer.  And  Katherine's  silence  seemed  to  exorcise 
them. 

"You  have  been  more  than  kind,"  she  said.  "You 
have  taken  a  great  deal  of  trouble  for  me.  It  was  more 
than  I  could  expect  and  I  am  grateful.  I  would 
like —  She  hesitated.  "Is  there  anything  in  the 
world  that  I  can  do  for  you,  my  dear?" 

Dumbly  Katherine  shook  her  head.  There  was  a  lump 
in  her  throat  that  would  not  be  swallowed.  She  knew 
then  that  she  could  have  loved  this  woman.  .  .  . 

"You  must  leave  me  your  address.  And  later,  after 
it  is  over — if  you  can  remember  the  place  ...  I 
would  like  to  have  him  in  the  old  church." 

"Yes,  I  will  send  my  address.  And  I  will  write  you 
276 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

everything  I  can  remember  of  the  place  so  that  if  any- 
thing should  happen  to  me  you  could  find  it." 

"I  should  be  grateful." 

For  a  moment  more  Jeffrey's  mother  held  her  hand, 
looking  down  upon  her,  saying  something  of  her  sad 
gratitude,  and  then  she  was  gone,  her  arm  slipped 
through  that  of  the  clinging  girl.  They  were  fond  of 
each  other,  Katherine  could  see.  .  .  .  She  moved  to  the 
window.  A  very  old  man  was  holding  open  the  door  of 
a  carriage.  He  closed  it  upon  them  and  they  drove 
away. 

Upstairs  she  locked  the  box  that  looked  so  empty 
now.  But  still  she  had  his  letters.  .  .  .  And  then  she 
remembered,  and  looking  down  upon  her  third  finger  she 
saw  that  she  had  been  wearing  before  them  the  old  sig- 
net which  Jeffrey  had  placed  there  that  Sunday  at  Les 
Buissons.  .  .  .  Had  the  mother  noticed? 

She  would  never  know  now,  she  thought,  what  inter- 
pretation— perhaps  to  her  discredit — the  mother  would 
place  upon  its  presence  there.  It  seemed  to  her  the  last 
card  in  a  pack  of  ironies. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

THAT  night  she  had  no  more  terms  to  make  with 
grief.     It  had  its  way  with  her. 

In  those  first  stunned  days  at  the  hospital  she 
had  been  drugged  with  work.  And  in  Paris  when  she 
had  waked  to  the  meaning  of  her  loss  she  had  fled  from 
it,  like  a  child  running  in  terror  before  some  overwhelm- 
ing thing,  hurrying  blindly  to  the  refuge  of  Jeffrey's 
mother  and  the  comfort  of  her  understanding  and  her 
sympathy. 

Now  that  refuge  was  gone.  She  had  closed  the  door 
upon  it,  or  rather,  it  had  never  been  open.  Her  com- 
mon-sense now  flashed  the  dry  white  light  of  ironic 
understanding  over  that.  .  .  .  To  Jeffrey's  mother  she 
would  have  been  a  stranger,  an  outsider,  someone  who 
had  captured  Jeffrey's  heart  from  her.  .  .  .  Instinc- 
tively she  divined  that  the  very  mildness  of  his  affection 
for  the  little  Violet  was  a  recommendation  for  the  girl 
in  the  mother's  eyes.  She  was  no  formidable  rival,  but 
a  dear  protegee  to  be  sheltered. 

Now  that  was  all  over.  .  .  .  She  was  shut  out  from 
everything  of  his  old  life.  .  .  .  She  felt  like  Hagar 
stumbling  into  the  wilderness.  .  .  . 

£78 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

And  Jeffrey  was  gone  .  .  .  gone  forever.  .  .  .  She 
must  think  what  life  would  be  like  now;  she  must  look 
at  her  life,  face  it  clearly.  .  .  . 

Wave  after  wave  of  anguish  went  over  her.  She  lay 
on  her  bed,  stiff  and  rigid,  her  hands  tightly  clenched, 
as  if  she  were  enduring  a  physical  spasm.  If  she  kept 
very  quiet  perhaps  this  agony  would  abate  .  .  .  like  a 
fever.  .  .  . 

But  her  mind  would  not  be  quiet.  Like  a  storm  at  sea 
it  was  casting  up  its  wreckage — memories,  pictures, 
images,  old  thoughts,  old  associations.  .  .  .  She  kept 
seeing  Jeffrey's  face,  eager  and  splendid,  with  that  shin- 
ing look  that  his  eyes  held  for  her,  even  at  the  last.  .  .  . 
She  kept  hearing  his  voice  in  the  old  words  and  phrases, 
but  ending  always  in  the  pitiable  ghost-like  whisper, 
"Is  it  possible?  .  .  .  All  that  was  to  be." 

All  that  was  to  be!  Those  other  women  in  black, 
those  wives,  those  mothers,  they  were  not  to  be  pitied 
as  was  she ;  they  had  lived  their  love,  they  had  days  and 
nights  of  memories,  of  dear  associations,  of  priceless 
hours.  She  had  so  little !  Their  love  and  life  were  all 
before  them.  .  .  .  And  now  it  was  all  over.  Never  to 
see  him  again,  never  to  be  his  wife,  never  to  hear  his 
dear  home-coming  step.  .  .  . 

She  twisted  over  on  the  bed,  hiding  her  face  in  her 
arms,  great  sobs  shaking  her  body.  She  felt  she  could 
not  bear  it.  ...  But  other  people  had  borne  it.  They 
had  lived — somehow.  Ellen  Wharton  had  lived,  frozen 
into  a  sad  statue,  going  about  the  surface  of  life.  .  .  . 
Bravely  or  bitterly,  somehow  people  lived. 

And  she  must  live.    Her  splendid  chance !    The  words 

279 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

flung  themselves  at  her  ironically.  Her  splendid  chance 
of  life  and  love  and  happiness  all  wrecked  and  broken 
and  trampled  underfoot — under  a  Kaiser's  foot. 

Never  again.  .  .  .  Her  heart  took  up  the  burden  of 
that  nevermore  and  beat  against  the  doors  of  mystery. 
.  .  .  Sorrow  does  away  with  all  the  little  candles  men 
have  lit  to  see  by  and  demands  the  great  white  light  of 
truth.  .  .  .  She  strained  her  untried  eyes  in  vain  to 
search  its  farthest  rays. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  life?  A  great,  whirling, 
nebulous  mass,  rotating,  condensing,  cooling  .  .  .  with 
a  flicker  of  animation  creeping  from  plant  to  plant, 
leaping  the  border  into  animal  existence,  mounting  from 
form  to  form,  higher  and  higher,  to  blaze  up  into  human 
consciousness — and  then  ? 

The  mystery  of  the  human  consciousness !  Science 
could  not  answer  her,  any  more  than  the  kind  God  of 
her  mother's  church,  a  church  where  hell  was  tacitly 
ignored  and  heaven  assumed,  a  church  where  every  spar- 
row's fall  was  still  credited  with  prearrangement  and 
the  answer  to  every  perplexity  was  that  of  a  "mysteri- 
ous way  His  wonders  to  perform." 

What  answer  was  that  to  Belgium  ?  What  answer  to 
the  unending  history  of  human  injustice  and  brutality 
and  martyrdom?  What  heaven  was  that  of  shining 
saints,  faith-saved,  their  brothers  damned? 

It  would  take  a  greater  God  than  the  God  of  separate 
churches  to  answer  her — and  still  He  did  not  speak. 
Unless  this  world  was  His  mouthpiece?  And  if  it 
was 

Her  spirit  was  standing  at  the  gates  of  death,  shaking 
280 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

the  bars.  What  was  beyond?  The  resurrection?  The 
transference  of  the  spirit?  .  .  .  Either  were  a  death  to 
the  old  and  loved  familiar  flesh.  ...  A  sleep?  A  sleep 
unending,  like  the  flowers  whose  seeds  may  spring  to 
fresh  life  but  whose  petals  are  gathered  into  the  bosom 
of  the  earth  in  undying  but  unidentical  persistence? 
Was  this  analogy  for  both  the  flesh  and  spirit? 

So  everyone  who  thinks  and  feels  and  loves  questions 
of  life.  And  so  Katherine,  in  the  travail  of  her  soul. 
But  no  one  who  had  gone  through  the  anguish  of  that 
battlefield  and  its  scenes  of  suffering  could  find  a  simple 
answer  to  that  chaos  of  human  fury  and  human  exalta- 
tion. 

From  its  desperate  questionings  her  heart  dropped 
back  into  its  own  grief  of  loss.  What  did  it  matter? 
What  did  it  all  matter?  Jeffrey  was  gone — and  she 
must  live  without  him. 

"But  I  can't — I  can't,"  she  moaned. 

The  next  morning  she  telephoned  MacNare  and  he 
came  to  her  hotel,  prepared  for  the  parting  which  had 
been  understood  between  them. 

"But  I'm  not  going,"  she  said  quickly,  to  his  inquir- 
ing look.  "Not — not  to  Edgerton  Hall." 

He  was  shocked  by  the  alteration  of  the  night.  She 
had  a  feverish  color  and  her  eyes  were  bright  and  defi- 
antly hard  as  if  she  were  warning  off  the  world. 

"I — I  didn't  tell  her,"  she  went  on  rapidly,  as  he 
waited  for  her  speech.  "She — she  had  a  girl  with  her — 
someone  she  was  fond  of  and  someone  who  was  fond  of 
Jeffrey  and  who  thought.  .  .  .  You  see,  I  couldn't  tell 

281 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

them.  It  wouldn't  have  done  me  any  good,"  she  added, 
trying  for  light  indifference,  "for  they  wouldn't  have 
loved  me  for  it.  ...  This  was  a  wild  goose  chase,  you 
see.  .  .  .  Except  of  course  that — that  I  would  have 
come  anyway  and  told  her — everything  I  could — of  his 
death.  .  .  .  And  now  it's  all  over " 

"Yes?     Now?" 

Her  eyes  looked  past  him.  Her  locked  fingers  twisted 
restlessly. 

"You'll  go  home?    To  your  mother?" 

"My  mother?    And  bring  this  to  her?"     She  touched 
her  own  breast.     "How  can  I?     I've  never  told  her  of 
Jeffrey,   you   see.   .  .   .  And  now —       No,   I'm   no   use 
there.    I  can  be  of  use  in  Paris.     So  I'll  go  back.     If — 
if  you  could  tell  me  about  trains — 

He  thought  that  it  was  a  hard  fate  which  had  sent 
this  girl  to  Europe  on  the  same  boat  with  Jeffrey  Edger- 
ton.  Just  another  day  before  sailing — 

Aloud  he  said,  "You  need  a  rest,  a  change — 

"Don't  you  know  that  a  rest  is  the  last  thing  in  the 
world  that  I  need?"  she  flashed  petulantly  at  him.  "I 
want  to  get  away,  to  get  away  from  everybody,  from 
myself!  I  want  to  work,  to  forget " 

"You  won't  do  much  work  till  you've  had  a  rest,"  he 
continued  stolidly.  "No  doctor  would  put  you  on  a  case 
now.  He'd  put  you  to  bed.  ...  I  want  you  to  come 
down  to  the  Cotswolds  with  me." 

"TheCotswolds?" 

"I'm  sufficiently  a  cousinly  person  for  you  to  be 
with,  and  I  don't  believe  we'd  find  any  society  to 
inquire." 

282 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 


"It  isn't  that!     But  I  don't  want- 


"I've  business  there  and  I — I'd  like  you  to  go  with 
me.  I — want  someone  with  me,  you  know." 

"Business !"  she  mocked.  He  met  her  look  with  a 
steadiness  that  melted  her  eyes  to  gentleness.  Not  that 
she  believed  a  word  he  said.  He  was  trying  to  make  out 
a  case  for  himself,  in  order  to  give  her  the  change  he 
thought  she  needed.  It  was  touchingly  friendly. 

"It's  so  quiet  there,"  he  told  her,  "and  so  open. 
You'd  like  it  for  a  few  days." 

And  of  course,  whether  he  knew  it  or  not,  he  really 
did  need  someone  with  him.  She  had  not  forgotten  his 
grim  isolation  in  his  own  terrible  loss.  But  he  seemed 
so  strong,  so  able  now  to  endure,  that  she  faintly  won- 
dered. What  formula  had  he  found  for  going  on  with 
life? 

She  had  no  thought  at  all  that  the  queer,  black- 
browed  young  man  who  sat  so  stolidly  before  her  in  that 
chintz-hung  drawing-room,  knew  now  but  one  formula 
as  a  spring  for  action.  As  long  as  she  was  near  him, 
as  long  as  she  needed  him  in  her  peculiar  loneliness  and 
he  could  care  for  her  and  help  her  a  little,  why  then  he 
had  something  to  do  from  moment  to  moment.  He  had 
a  dumb,  hungry  longing  to  be  with  her.  He  accepted 
the  utter  hopelessness  and  the  limitations  of  this  strange 
association,  and  he  asked  nothing  for  himself  but  to  help 
her  now  a  little  and  then  stand  aside.  He  told  himself 
that  he  would  not  suffer  long. 

With  utter  indifference  she  left  the  details  to  him.    It 
did  not  matter  to  her  where  she  went  or  what  she  did. 
19  283 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

She  wanted  to  be  left  alone  and  allowed  to  eat  her  heart 
out  in  bitter  rebellion  at  the  havoc  of  her  life. 

She  was  preoccupied  with  her  own  misery  and  did  not 
appreciate  the  patient  kindliness  of  the  taciturn  man  be- 
side her,  and  his  thoughtfulness  for  her  in  little  things, 
but  she  remembered  his  trouble  and  tried  to  rouse  her- 
self and  make  an  effort  for  his  sake.  It  was  a  strange 
journey.  She  knew  that  he  was  taking  it  for  her  sake, 
trying  to  be  kind  to  her,  and  though  her  heart  made 
no  response  her  courage  tried  to  hide  her  wretchedness 
and  accept  his  friendliness  as  he  meant  it. 

So  when  the  train  had  climbed  to  the  little  hidden  vil- 
lage among  the  barren  hills  whither  MacNare's  recol- 
lections pointed  him,  she  feigned  pleasure  in  the  place, 
the  scenery,  the  quaint  lodgings  which  he  found  for 
her  around  the  corner  from  his  tiny  inn,  and  all  the  ex- 
cursions that  he  constantly  devised,  going  docilely  with 
him  for  walks  and  drives  or  long  rambles  along  the 
scantily  wooded  streams  in  some  wide  valley,  or  breath- 
less climbs  up  the  hilly  slopes  that  looked  so  slack  and 
proved  so  endless. 

But  for  her  it  was  just  the  country  that  she  would 
never  see  with  Jeffrey,  the  England  where  she  and  Jef- 
frey would  never  live.  .  .  . 

Every  day  her  bitter  heart  said  that  it  could  not  go 
on. 

It  was  the  seventh  week  since  Jeffrey  had  died.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  it  was  the  seventh  year.  Already  she 
had  grown  accustomed  to  pain,  to  waking  with  a  heart 
of  lead  into  a  world  in  which  she  was  alone.  The  first 
wild  resentment,  the  anguished  incredulity  with  which 

284 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

her  heart  had  wakened  to  her  loss  and  cried,  "It  cannot, 
cannot  be  true!  That  voice  cannot  be  stilled  for- 
ever, that  warm  ardent  heart  cannot  be  cold — 
these  things  are  too  awful  to  be!"  and  refused  to 
accept  the  present  in  the  vision  of  the  past,  this  defiance 
had  been  beaten  by  every  slow,  succeeding  day  into 
submission. 

She  accepted  the  fact  of  her  loss  and  as  the  days  went 
by  felt  as  if  she  had  always  known  it.  The  young  coun- 
try couples,  glad  in  each  other's  nearness,  waked  no 
longer  a  rebellious  cry  against  blind  fate  but  only  a 
dumb  wonder  that  asked  heavily  if  her  heart  had  ever 
been  as  joyous,  her  laugh  as  ready.  ...  So  quickly 
does  grief  exhaust  its  wonder,  and  know  itself  for  a 
maimed  thing. 

She  went  through  only  the  motions  of  living  in  those 
empty  days.  There  was  a  certain  amount  of  pretense 
about  it,  a  certain  semblance  of  interest  to  screen  her 
from  the  village  eyes,  but  behind  this  screen  of  motion 
the  real  woman  sat  idly,  with  folded  hands.  She  felt 
that  her  inner  life  was  done. 

She  thought  one  night  that  she  wished  never  to  wake 
again.  And  she  waked  early,  in  the  chill  of  before- 
dawn,  with  a  glimpse  of  the  reddening  east  in  the 
November  sky.  She  dressed  hurriedly  and  left  the  quiet 
house,  passing  the  inn  where  a  solitary  hostler,  washing 
down  a  horse  in  the  court,  touched  h>s  cap  to  her  in 
surprise. 

Down  the  lane  she  went  and  into  one  of  the  winding 
roads  that  curved  among  the  hills,  and  presently  she 

285 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

turned  off  from  the  road  and  started  up  a  grassy  hill- 
side. An  intense  need  for  out-of-doors,  for  breathing 
space,  drove  her  on.  She  wanted  to  exhaust  herself  in 
physical  energy.  She  climbed  blindly  at  first  with  no 
eyes  for  the  country  ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  beauty  would 
never  mean  anything  to  her  again. 

The  air  was  mild  though  with  the  tang  of  crisper  days 
at  hand,  and  there  was  still  green  in  the  stubbly  grass 
under  her  feet.  She  looked  down  at  the  gauzy,  dew- 
filled  cobwebs  stretching  from  blade  to  blade.  Ahead 
of  her  there  were  white  rabbits  scampering  away.  One 
turned  and  looked  back  at  her  with  soft,  inquiring  eyes. 
It  looked  very  innocent  and  friendly.  And  men  shot 
them  for  sport !  Everything  in  the  world  held  its  stab 
of  pain. 

And  everything  held  its  associations.  There  had  been 
a  little  white  rabbit  breakfasting  about  the  farm  that 
day  of  the  first  battle. 

She  went  on  and  on,  hurrying  with  a  sense  of  urgency, 
almost  of  expectation.  There  were  no  trees  and  the 
sky  stretched  overhead  in  limitless  space.  Her  back  was 
to  the  east  but  she  saw  ahead  of  her  its  faint  reflections. 
The  blue  of  the  sky  was  deepening  above  with  the  deep- 
ening light.  She  passed  a  dew-pond,  full,  unstirred,  a 
circle  of  sky  invaded  by  the  rosy  flush  of  east.  .  .  . 
Her  heart  beat  suddenly  with  a  fuller  pulse.  She 
pressed  on,  tirelessly. 

And  then  she  reached  the  top,  a  great,  bare  headland 
of  jutting  rock  and  close-cropped  grass,  and  turned  to 
look  down.  It  was  not  a  high  hill  but  it  seemed  high  in 
the  morning  light,  and  the  soft  vapors  of  the  night  still 

286 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

veiled  the  valleys  so  that  the  world  seemed  to  lie  at  her 
feet. 

In  the  east  a  flash  of  fire  leaped  from  behind  a  craggy 
hill  head  and  ran  along  the  rim  of  the  dim  world.  Up 
from  the  horizon  into  the  reddened  clouds  there  poured 
a  blaze  of  gold,  like  the  flames  of  Wotan's  forge  or 
Brtinhilde's  dancing  fire,  and  into  the  burning  beauty 
sprang  out  the  red-gold  sun.  A  shaft  of  purest  light 
seemed  to  flash  along  the  hilltops ;  she  felt  bathed  in  its 
light  and  in  a  sense  of  fresh,  new  day.  ...  A  wind 
sprang  up;  it  blew  cool  against  her  forehead,  tossing 
back  her  hair.  Down  in  the  valleys  it  was  blowing  back 
the  vapors,  revealing  gleaming  little  lakes.  The  dew- 
pond's  reflected  gold  was  crisped  with  sudden,  tiny 
waves.  The  cobwebs  glowed. 

Again  she  felt  the  stir  that  all  strong  manifestations 
of  nature  roused  in  her,  the  sense  of  being  one  with 
them  and  sharing  them.  She  felt  caught  up  in  that  free 
wind  and  carried  out  to  high  heaven  and  the  fiery  east ; 
the  light  and  the  pure  color  dazzled  her  and  her  blood 
flowed  faster  in  her  veins,  her  breath  came  and  went 
in  sudden  ecstasy.  .  .  .  God — nature — something  inar- 
ticulate out  there  was  answered  by  the  articulate  spirit 
within.  .  .  .  Splendor  and  beauty  lived  and  called  to 
her. 

Suddenly  she  felt  herself  strong  and  enduring,  even 
as  the  earth  was  enduring,  and  in  the  elemental  clay 
her  spirit  burned  with  a  new  fire.  .  .  .  She  felt  glad. 
Life  was  not  all  horror  while  it  held  love  and  beauty, 
and  love  was  not  gone  while  memory  lived.  The  mys- 
tery of  it  was  still  insoluble,  but  she  was  unafraid. 

287 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

God  was  greater  than  any  creed  that  men  could  bind 
Him  with.  He  was  no  demon  omniscience,  designing  her 
heart  to  its  individual  anguish.  He  was  no  gross  mis- 
manager  of  monarchies,  accessible  to  prayer  and  incense 
and  the  formal  beseechments  of  crowned  heads.  .  .  . 
He  was  that  light  that  sprang  at  her  from  the  dawn, 
that  ray  that  kindled  in  men's  hearts.  .  .  . 

Strange  how  that  flash  of  consciousness  that  had  been 
running  through  the  world,  from  form  to  form,  from  life 
to  life,  seemed  still  winging  on  its  ways  among  men, 
kindling,  ennobling,  enlightening!  And  however  the 
majority  of  men  were  dull  to  its  spark,  unaware  of  high 
capacity,  content  to  cower,  to  accept,  to  make  terms,  to 
serve,  there  were  always  found  the  shining  spirits,  know- 
ing a  higher  life,  realizing  a  sujalimer  self.  These  were 
the  Fire-bringers  among  men,  that  like  Prometheus 
would  give  their  bodies  to  the  torment  rather  than  be- 
tray the  mission  of  their  souls.  Were  these  the  last 
answer  of  conscious  life,  the  final  sublimity  of  evolu- 
tion? 

For  a  moment  her  thoughts  followed  on  this  trail  of 
her  old  questionings,  then  they  came  back  to  confront 
that  world  which  stretched  about  her,  into  which  she 
must  descend  and  live  her  days.  .  .  .  She  thought  of 
the  future  now  steadily.  Her  heart  was  not  empty !  It 
held  priceless  memories  of  love  and  courage.  Bitter 
that  Jeffrey  must  be  one  of  the  martyrs  in  that  struggle 
of  the  everlasting  verities  of  freedom  and  right  against 
undying  stupidities  and  cruelties,  but  splendid  for  her 
that  he  had  lived,  that  she  had  known  him,  that  they  had 
loved ! 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

She  looked  out  over  the  world,  fresh  and  beautiful, 
and  though  the  irrecoverable  beauty  and  freshness  of 
her  own  life  were  gone,  her  splendid  chance  for  perfect 
joy,  she  felt  the  indestructible  forces  of  youth  and  life 
within  her.  And  she  knew  that  she  would  go  on,  and  go 
on  bravely  and  stanchly,  not  darkening  a  sad  world  with 
her  grief,  but  drawing  strength  from  her  memories, 
from  her  own  soul,  and  from  the  strength  of  this  nature, 
so  impersonal,  so  enduring,  so  free  of  beauty. 

She  knew  herself  then  as  a  woman  stronger  than  the 
grief-crushed  girl,  able  to  hide  her  wounds  and  to  help, 
perhaps,  in  healing  others.  That  was  all  that  really 
mattered  now — to  heal,  to  comfort,  to  help  bandage 
those  many  wounds.  .  .  .  She  thought,  as  of  a  stranger, 
of  that  other  self  who  had  set  sail,  those  nine  months 
before,  to  find  her  fortune,  that  other,  so  avid  of  happi- 
ness, so  incredulous  of  disaster! 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

TO  France!"  she  told  MacNare,  turning  to  him 
with  a  sudden  smile. 

He  had  just   asked  her  where   they   should 
go  that  afternoon. 

All  morning  they  had  driven  on  an  old  Roman  road 
by  high  and  windy  pastures  where  low-massed  clouds 
trailed  their  slow  and  purple  shadows  on  the  empty 
fields,  and  all  morning  her  thoughts  had  fed  silently 
on  new  purposes  while  her  senses  had  quickened  to  the 
beauty  about  her. 

She  added,  "My  'rest'  has  lasted  long  enough." 

MacNare  saw  that  the  girl  Katherine  was  gone.  It 
was  a  woman,  steady-eyed  and  quiet-lipped,  that  smiled 
at  him,  and  his  heart  ached  for  that  gay  lost  creature 
with  her  eyes  of  joy.  ...  If  only  he  could  see  her  face 
light  again  in  the  old  way,  see  her  lips  pucker  in  their 
saucy  young  laughter !  .  .  .  But  the  world  was  replete 
with  the  destruction  of  precious  things  and  this  girl's 
lightness  of  heart  had  gone  with  the  rest. 

It  was  one  thing  more  out  of  his  life,  that  was  all — 
and  the  last.  .  .  .  The  first  flush  of  his  youth  had  been 
squandered  on  a  waster.  .  .  .  Then  he  had  shut  him- 

290 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

self  away  from  love,  and  a  child  had  taken  the  place  in 
his  life  of  all  that  affection  might  mean  to  other  men. 
.  .  .  But  love  was  not  a  matter  of  decision.  It  had 
taken  him  by  surprise,  invaded  him  like  a  rush  of  spring. 
He  had  had  his  brief  dream — a  dream  of  folly.  His 
heart  still  knew  the  pang  of  that  moment  when  he  had 
glimpsed  Katherine  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  her  arm 
in  Jeffrey's. 

So  had  gone  love,  with  the  dumb  show  of  friendship 
remaining.  Then  had  gone  the  child,  torn  out  of  his 
life  in  a  bloody  nightmare  of  horror.  .  .  .  Now  the  last 
use  of  friendship  was  nearly  over. 

"And  in  France?"  he  heard  himself  asking. 

"Work  again.  Nursing.  Yes,  and  I  want  to  paint 
again,  strong  things,  terrible  things,  even,  that  people 
may  see  and  know.  .  .  .  That  may  be  my  way  of 
helping." 

After  a  silence  she  added,  "And  you  ?" 

"I  have  some  work,  too,"  he  said  slowly.  "One  last 
thing  to  do — also  that  people  may  see  and  understand. 
.  .  .  That  will  occupy  me  for  some  little  time." 

Madame  Bonnet  was  back  in  the  building  with  Marie 
and  her  baby  and  the  two  children.  Jean  was  a  pris- 
oner, and  Marie  was  alternately  depressed  and  thankful 
that  he  was  not  in  the  trenches.  Henri  was  yet  safe. 
That  was  the  news. 

Whatever  astonishment  the  good  madame  experi- 
enced at  beholding  her  two  lodgers  return  together  she 
did  not  express.  MacNare  she  comprehended  and  re- 
garded with  dumb  head-shakings  and  pitying  eyes; 

291 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Katherine  she  studied  wonderingly  in  the  days  which 
followed. 

"She  is  a  brave  girl,"  she  ventured  to  observe  to 
MacNare,  one  morning,  presenting  herself  upon  some 
excuse  in  the  studio  where  he  was  now  eternally 
engrossed  in  a  huge  lump  of  clay.  "Look,  now,  what 
she  is  doing — every  other  day  to  the  hospitals  to 
relieve  the  regular  nurses,  cleaning,  bathing,  band- 
aging— such  work  as  no  young  girl  should  have  to 
do! — and  between  times  at  her  easel,  or  trudging 
from  hospital  to  refugees  to  find  the  picture  that  she 
must  paint —  Oh,  she  is  a  brave,  a  noble  girl, 
monsieur !" 

"She  is  helping  herself  in  helping  others,"  said  Mac- 
Nare shortly. 

"It  is  not  for  that  that  she  does  it !" 

"You  mistake  me.  ...  I  comprehend  her  motives. 
...  It  is  their  very  disinterestedness  that  is  helping 
her." 

Madame  was  silent,  dusting  the  ashes  from  a  chair 
as  an  excuse  for  lingering.  She  gave  MacNare  a 
stealthily  appraising  look. 

"It  is  to  your  grave  that  you  are  hurling  yourself," 
she  thought  with  sorrowful  indignation.  In  the  crevices 
of  the  chair  she  found  a  tiny,  forgotten  paper  doll. 
Hurriedly  she  tucked  it  away  in  her  pocket.  She  had 
found  that  he  had  shut  out  of  sight  every  little  frock 
and  toy  of  his  dead  child  and  she  had  been  swift  to  aid 
in  removing  the  little  reminders  that  were  such  stabs 
of  memory. 

After  a  moment  she  murmured  casually,  straighten- 
292 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

ing  from  the  chair,  "But  she  is  blessedly  young,  mon- 
sieur. .  .  .  Youth  is  a  willow  wand." 

"She  is  young,"  said  MacNare  steadily.  "And  some 
day  she  will — not  forget,  madame,  but  overlay  the  mem- 
ory with  other  days  and  other  experiences.  ...  So  we 
cannot  lose  hope  for  her." 

Madame  regarded  his  unstirred  countenance  with 
mutinous  indignation.  Then  heavily  she  sighed.  Mac- 
Nare had  changed.  Decidedly  he  was  cherishing  no 
more  personal  hope.  .  .  .  He  applied  himself  to  his 
clay  as  if,  thought  madame,  nothing  in  the  world  could 
be  made  but  from  mud. 

And  yet  Katherine  would  nearly  always  stop  at  his 
door  on  her  way  back  from  the  hospitals,  and  often 
they  went  out  to  dinner  together.  .  .  . 

It  was  to  Katherine  that  the  good  woman  offered  her 
next  remarks.  Entering  the  kitchen  in  her  own  quar- 
ters one  noon  some  few  days  later  she  chanced  to  find 
her  young  lodger  there,  talking  with  Marie  and  the 
baby,  and  she  promptly  sent  Marie  on  an  errand  and 
addressed  herself  to  some  understanding  of  this  strange 
American. 

"Marie  needs  the  air,"  she  remarked  to  her.  "You 
will  not  mind  holding  the  baby,  mademoiselle,  while  I 
complete  this  soup?  ...  It  is  for  the  monsieur.  If  I 
did  not  bring  him  a  hot  dish  he  would  forget  to  eat, 
that  poor  man." 

Katherine  was  cuddling  the  tiny  girl.  There  being 
an  American  rocking-chair  in  the  kitchen  she  rocked 
blissfully,  the  little  body  warm  against  her,  the  fuzzy 
head  on  her  arm.  It  gave  her  a  tender  feeling  to  hold 

293 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

the  baby  and  yet  it  hurt — cruelly.  For  there  would 
be  no  little  children  of  her  own  to  hold,  no  little  sons 
with  Jeffrey's  eyes,  no  little  daughters.  .  .  .  She  bowed 
her  head  over  the  baby,  swinging  slowly  to  and  fro. 

"Mademoiselle,  that  man  should  not  be  so  much 
alone,"  said  madame  thoughtfully,  nodding  her  head  to 
indicate  the  sculptor  in  the  front  of  the  house.  "I  do 
what  I  can — but  it  is  not  much.  And  you,  of  course, 
are  busy.  ...  I  am  troubled  for  him." 

"I  know,"  Katherine  sighed.  "But  he  is  working 
hard,  and  isn't  that  the  best  thing  for  him?" 

"Do  you  imagine  that  he  forgets?  ...  I  do  not 
know  what  he  is  making  in  there  but  sometimes  his  face 
is  the  face  of  ten  devils.  .  .  .  Remember  that  she  was 
all  he  had — and  they  blew  her  head  off  her  body !" 

Madame  added,  her  voice  breaking,  "You  do  not 
know  how  even  I  miss  her!  The  little  innocent.  ...  I 
had  her  so  much.  ...  It  was  I  who  bought  her  little 
things.  .  .  ." 

They  were  silent,  with  thoughts  of  the  child  heavy 
between  them.  Katherine  found  herself  remembering 
one  night  when  Peggy  had  cuddled  down  upon  her 
couch  putting  her  paper  dolls  to  bed  .  .  .  such  a  big- 
eyed,  curly-haired  little  mite,  all  fat  legs  and  dimples 
.  .  .  and  MacNare  had  sat  there  smoking  .  .  .  and 
had  told  her  of  the  mother. 

She  had  been  sorry  for  him  then,  God  knows.  .  .  . 
And  she  had  been  glad  to  think  that  the  child  would  be 
more  and  more  a  comfort  to  him.  .  .  . 

She  strained  the  baby  to  her  suddenly.  .  .  .  How 
one's  very  life  could  twine  about  a  child! 

294 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"He  must  not  be  so  alone,"  madame  was  repeating 
insistently. 

"I  don't  mean  to  leave  him  alone,"  Katherine  re- 
turned. "I  want  to  do  everything  I  can — he  was  so 
good  to  me  in  England,  you  don't  know  how  good !  .  .  . 
But  I  don't  think  he  cares  for  much  companionship 
now.  I  felt  I  mustn't  intrude  upon  him." 

"For  you  that  would  be  an  impossibility." 

Katherine  looked  doubtful.  "I  presume  much  now 
upon  our  friendship " 

"It  is  more  than  as  a  friend  that  he  regards  you,  my 
child." 

Over  the  baby's  head  Katherine  raised  warning  eyes 
to  her.  "You  must  not  say  such  things,  dear  madame." 

"Not  say  them  ?  Is  a  true  devotion  then  only  ac- 
cepted— but  never  acknowledged?" 

A  faint  color  found  its  way  into  the  girl's  cheeks. 
"You  must  not  mistake  the  great  kindness  of  Monsieur 
MacNare." 

"Kind  he  is,  with  a  heart  of  gold — but  it  is  not  I 
who  misunderstand,"  said  madame  calmly.  "Monsieur 
worships  the  very  ground  upon  which  you  walk.  .  .  . 
You  brought  spring  when  you  came  to  this  house — and 
I  saw  that  Monsieur  MacNare  remembered  that  he  was 
young  and  I  was  glad  for  him.  For  I  thought  that 
when  mademoiselle  knew  him — and  she  was  so  friendly 
with  him  that  I  dreamed.  .  .  .  And  then,  fool  that  I 
was !  I  sent  him  to  Les  Buissons." 

"You  sent  him?" 

"I  told  him  that  you  were  there,  that  you  did  not 
regard  him  as  a  grandfather  with  a  wooden  leg!  He 

295 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

was  young  and  a  man  of  genius.  He  had  means.  Why 
not?  I  did  not  know  then  that  mademoiselle  had  met 
her  man.  .  .  .  And  monsieur  went  off  like  a  boy  to 
make  a  little  holiday  with  you,  perhaps  to  let  you  look 
into  his  heart.  .  .  ." 

She  paused,  apparently  concentrating  upon  the  soup, 
and  Katherine's  thoughts  went  back  that  long  way  to 
the  Sunday  at  Les  Buissons,  to  MacNare,  and  his  queer 
look  when  she  had  come  down  the  hill  with  Jeffrey,  to 
his  abrupt  departure.  She  could  see  him  still,  marching 
down  the  farm  path,  little  Peggy  clinging  to  his  hand. 
...  A  hundred  half-forgotten,  half-glimpsed  impres- 
sions rushed  back  to  her.  .  .  .  But  he  had  been  so 
stolidly  reserved,  so  shy  of  speech  in  all  his  bluntness ! 

Eyeing  her  changing  face,  "Saint  Anne  of  Miracles, 
but  she  did  not  know !"  thought  madame  amazedly. 
"He  has  never  let  her  see — not  even  in  England.  .  .  . 
He  is  mad,  that  young  man !  And  she — did  not  her 
poor  young  Englishman — God  rest  his  soul! — teach 
her  what  stuff  men's  hearts  are  made  of?" 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  said  a  sober  little  voice  over  the 
baby's  head.  "I  would  not  have  hurt  him  for  any- 
thing." 

"It  was  not  you,  mademoiselle,  it  was  the  destiny." 

Katherine's  perceptions,  at  last  aroused,  were  running 
on  swiftly.  If  this  were  true — why  this,  then,  was  the 
secret  of  his  gentleness  to  her,  his  patient  tenderness  in 
her  grief.  .  .  .  She  remembered  the  night  of  her  deso- 
late return  to  the  studio.  .  .  .  She  remembered  the  gray 
crossing  to  England.  .  .  .  She  remembered  the  long 
days  at  the  Cotswolds.  .  .  . 

296 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"Mademoiselle  must  not  regret  that  I  have  mentioned 
this,"  said  the  older  woman,  a  little  anxiously.  "I  but 
spoke  of  it  to  show  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  you 
to  presume,  as  you  said,  upon  his  feeling  for  you. 
There  is  nothing  that  you  can  do  that  would  be  dis- 
pleasing to  him.  And  now  that  he  is  alone  and  fairly 
ill  with  grief  you  can  do  much  for  him." 

"I  will  do  everything  I  can,"  said  the  girl,  with  a 
simple  readiness  that  managed  to  depress  poor  madame's 
Lopes.  "If  my  companionship  can  help  I  am  only  too 
glad  to  give  it.  He  is  my  dear  friend.  .  .  .  And  what- 
ever he  thought  in  the  beginning,  madame,  and  that 
Sunday  at  Les  Buissons,  that  is  now  long  past." 

She  looked  up  at  the  Frenchwoman  with  a  faint,  wist- 
ful smile.  "We  are  two  different  creatures,  now,  he 
and  I,  and  it  is  our  sorrow  that  is  a  bond  between  us. 
...  I  think  that  no  two  people  could  be  so  empty  of 
desire." 

That  was  the  pity  of  it,  thought  madame,  incurable 
builder  that  she  was. 

There  was  nothing  now  to  be  said.  Her  two  dear 
mad  Americans  had  their  own  arrangement  of  affairs. 

But  the  conversation  had  touched  Katherine's  heart 
to  a  deepened  understanding  of  that  strange  friend  of 
hers.  She  thought  it  pitiful  that  after  his  first  tragedy 
and  his  odd,  hermit  years,  he  should  have  found  fresh 
hope  again  only  to  be  disappointed.  .  .  .  But  it  was 
all  very  far  away  now.  And  the  Katherine  that  he  had 
desired  was  left  back  there  in  the  woods  at  Les  Buissons. 
.  .  .  For  this  sadder  Katherine  who  had  taken  her 
place  he  had  infinite  compassion  and  friendliness — but, 

297 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

of  course,  no  desire.  .  .  .  And  grief  for  a  murdered 
child  does  not  leave  a  man's  heart  space  for  the  love 
of  women. 

So  the  girl  thought,  quite  innocently  pigeon-holing 
MacNare's  sorry  romance  among  the  things  that  were, 
and  permitting  it  only  a  tender  memory  in  her  thoughts. 
But  for  compunction  at  her  past  blindness  and  the  pain 
that  she  had  unconsciously  caused  him  to  suffer  in  the 
days  of  her  own  happiness  she  redoubled  the  frank 
friendliness  of  her  ways  to  him,  and  in  the  long  evening 
hours  that  art  could  not  fill  for  him,  and  the  emptiness 
of  the  dinner-time,  she  tried  to  make  him  forget  that 
little  figure  that  had  trotted  so  quietly  about  the  studio, 
the  little  face,  with  its  great  dark  eyes  that  had  watched 
him  across  so  many  dinner-tables. 

She  felt  that  it  was  good  that  he  was  working  hard 
at  that  new  model  of  his.  She  herself  had  begun  to  un- 
derstand now  something  of  the  uses  of  her  creative 
power.  She  was  filling  canvas  after  canvas  with  those 
wan  faces  at  the  hospitals,  with  the  dazed  horrors  of 
the  Belgian  refugees,  the  piteous  faces  of  wives  whose 
husbands  had  been  bayoneted  before  them,  of  mothers 
whose  daughters  had  been  torn  from  them,  whose  sons 
had  been  shot.  ...  If  only  her  power  of  painting1 
could  keep  some  sort  of  pace  with  her  passionate  sorrow 
for  these  people — if  only  she  could  do  them  the  poor 
service  of  winning  one  jot  of  the  world's  compassion! 

Often  she  brought  these  canvases  for  MacNare  to 
see.  He  eyed  them  with  a  grim  satisfaction. 

"Good — you  paint  like  a  man." 

Guerin  had  told  her  that  once  before. 
298 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

MacNare  thought  a  minute.  "You  face  facts — not 
tint  them." 

"You  mean  I'm  literal?" 

"You  are  fundamentally  honest,"  he  brought  out 
slowly,  his  frowning  gaze  still  on  her  study.  "And  un- 
afraid. .  .  .  Women  are  born  colorists.  .  .  .  But  they 
shrink  from  the  bare  bones  of  things." 

"And  you  do  not?" 

She  meant  it  generally.  But  he  took  it  to  himself 
with  a  harsh  laugh. 

"I  ?    I  live  among  the  bare  bones  of  things !" 


20 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

IN  one  of  the  workshops  that  charity  was  maintaining 
for  needy  women  Katherine  discovered  Olga  Goule- 
beff.  The  little  Russian  was  stitching  busily,  not 
for  charity,  but  for  the  franc  and  a  half  a  day.  The 
allowance  from  Russia  had  ceased. 

"Perhaps  he  is.  dead,  that  uncle  who  saw  to  it,"  Olga 
said.  "Anyway  it  is  not  here — and  I  regret  for  I  could 
do  much  with  it.  It  would  have  bought  many  cigarettes 
for  those  poor  boys  and  many  warm  socks." 

It  was  not  of  herself  that  Olga  was  thinking.  The 
girl's  odd  eyes  were  lighted  with  a  pale  intensity.  "If 
I  were  a  man!"  she  said. 

A  little  hesitantly  Katherine  asked  for  news  of  Louis 
Arnaud. 

"One  letter  has  come."  Olga's  fingers  flew  on  with 
their  rapid  stitching  as  she  spoke  unemotionally.  "It 
is  not  to  me  that  he  writes  often,  you  understand — and 
if  he  should  die  his  people  would  not  know  of  me  to  send 
word — nor  send  word  if  they  knew."  Her  tone  was  not 
bitter;  she  was  stating  the  facts  unresentfully.  "I  do 
not  even  know  where  he  is.  I  think  at  Ypres." 

For  a  moment  both  girls  were  silent,  their  thoughts 
300 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

with  that  long  drawn  battle-line,  stretched  like  a  taut 
and  quivering  bowstring  across  France.  That  living 
line! 

"You  still  remain?"  Olga  spoke  incuriously. 

"Yes.  I  was  nursing  for  some  weeks  in  the  country — 
now  I  am  helping  a  little  here.  And  painting." 

"Always  the  painting !  You  have  not  forgotten  your 
ambition,  then?  .  .  .  But  why  should  you,"  Olga  added, 
pointedly.  "It  is  not  your  country's  life  that  is  at 
stake." 

Katherine  was  silent.  Olga  went  on,  "But  that  makes 
it  even  kinder  when  the  Americans  come  and  help.  .  .  . 
And  they  are  helping!  .  .  .  That  woman's  son,"  and  she 
nodded  across  the  busy  room  to  where  a  wounded  youth, 
sat  chatting  with  a  group  of  the  women — there  were 
wounded  soldiers  in  many  of  the  groups  and  little  chil- 
dren playing  about  some  women's  knees — "he  told  me 
of  the  American  legion  that  enlisted.  He  was  next  them 
on  the  field.  And  coming  back  he  led  one  poor  Amer- 
ican, his  eyes  quite  gone.  .  .  .  He  was  not  twenty- 
two.  .  .  .  Think  of  it !  And  he  gave  them  for 
us !  ...  And  so  you  are  nursing — and  painting.  Still 
learning !" 

"Still  learning,"  said  Katherine  with  a  shadowy  smile. 
"And  so  much  to  learn.  .  .  .  But  I  am  working  hard." 

"Always  you  worked  hard,"  Olga  murmured.  "But 
you  had  reason." 

"You  must  come  and  see  me,"  Katherine  said  in  part- 
ing. "Come  in  and  have  dinner  with  me,  whenever  you 
can,  Olga." 

The  girl  nodded  without  speaking.  Then  as  Kath- 
301 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

erine  turned  away  she  caught  at  her  sleeve,  plucking  her 
back. 

"If  you  should  hear  anything — at  your  hospitals — 
his  was  the  — th  Regiment " 

"I  will  let  you  know  at  once." 

Olga's  hand  fell  slowly.  "It  is  not  that  I  cherish  any 
dreams,"  she  said  with  a  touch  of  her  old  irony.  "In 
the  beginning  of  course — always  I  hoped.  For  that  I 
went  to  Les  Avants  with  him,  hoping  to  become  dearer 
and  dearer.  ...  I  am  not  the  first  to  go  that  road. 
Though  some  succeed.  .  .  .  But  I  was  a  fool.  I  was 
jealous.  And  so  I — I  thought  to  pay  him  back,  to  show 
him  that  others  valued — valued,"  she  echoed  with  in- 
describable irony.  "They  valued  me  for  a  boast!  .  .  . 
And  that  finished  me  with  him,  you  comprehend.  ...  I 
became  the  affair  of  a  day." 

Picking  up  a  spool,  she  briskly  threaded  her  needle. 
She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  to  Katherine  but  went  on 
sewing,  her  tone  unchanging  in  its  quiet  bitterness. 
"I  was  a  fool  who  cut  my  own  throat.  .  .  .  There  is 
something  lacking  in  me,  of  course,  something  too  reck- 
less, too  uncontrolled,  too  ready.  .  .  .  You  angered  me 
that  day  with  your  pity  as  if  I  were  a  sinner  on  her 
knees.  .  .  .  But  you  were  kind.  You  never  spoke — 
never  told.  ...  I  would  like  to  thank  you  for  that 
much.  .  .  .  After  this,  perhaps  I  shall  go  to  New  York. 
I  must  earn  my  bread  and  there  my  talent  can  serve  for 
something — if  only  to  draw  fashion  plates!  .  .  .  But 
now  this  war  is  everything.  It  is  both  my  countries. 
.  .  .  And  it  may  be  that  I  shall  see  Louis  again." 

It  was  Olga's  solitary  revelation.  Though  Katherine 
302 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

afterwards  made  a  point  of  running  in  to  her,  to  taking 
her  out  to  dinner  and  seeing  that  she  had  something  sub- 
stantial to  eat,  never  again  was  there  any  talk  between 
them  of  the  past.  Always  the  crisis  of  the  war  engrossed 
them,  and  Olga,  living  like  a  little  anchorite  upon  her 
franc  and  a  half  a  day,  still  managed  to  wrest  from 
that  pittance,  so  Katherine  found,  some  two  sous  or 
more  each  day,  to  drop  in  the  box  labeled,  "Pour  Nos 
Soldats." 

For  our  soldiers — that  was  Olga's  life. 

After  that  in  the  hospitals  Katherine  sought  for  news 
of  Louis  but  found  nothing. 

One  day  as  she  passed  down  the  white  rows  a  sud- 
den likeness  arrested  her.  Then  she  saw  that  it  was  more 
than  a  likeness ;  it  was  Etienne  de  Trezac  himself,  the 
ghost  of  the  old  handsome  Etienne,  lying  with  closed 
eyes  and  drawn,  white  face.  As  she  looked  his  dark 
eyes  opened  upon  her  and  lighted  with  recognition. 

"Is  it  you?" 

She  came  up  to  the  side  of  the  bed.  "Really  I,  Eti- 
enne— Sister  Katherine,  now — a  substitute,  you  see.  .  .  . 
But  I  am  glad  to  see  you  again — even  here,"  she  added 
gently,  "for  we  shall  soon  have  you  well " 

She  looked  down  and  saw  the  bandaged  stump  of  an 
arm.  The  right  hand  was  gone.  A  rush  of  scalding 
pity  brought  the  words,  "Oh,  Etienne — your  painting 
hand!" 

Something  flickered  in  the  depths  of  his  dark  eyes 
but  they  did  not  flinch  and  the  gallant  smile  on  his 
pale  lips  did  not  falter.  "For  France  I  can  learn  to 
paint  with  my  left !" 

303 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

The  spirit  of  those  days!  The  spirit  of  France! 
She  tried  to  meet  his  brave  smile  with  one  of  her  own 
but  her  lips  quivered.  He  went  on,  "That  poor  man  at 
my  left  here — he  has  lost  both  eyes.  And  he  has  a  wife 
and  four  children  and  a  sick  mother  dependent  upon 
him.  .  .  .  He  used  to  repair  watches." 

His  tone  added,  "Now  that  is  a  tragedy  if  you  like! 
I  am  nothing !" 

On  the  next  bed  a  bandaged  face  turned  restively 
toward  them.  Katherine  bent  lower.  "Speak  softly, 
Etienne — he  hears  you." 

"He  comprehends."  Etienne  spoke  clearly.  "And  he 
knows  that  I  comprehend.  We  are  brothers  in  arms. 
.  .  .  And  I  shall  always  look  out  for  you  and  yours, 
my  brother." 

From  the  next  bed  a  thin  arm  was  thrust  uncertainly 
forth  and  Etienne  reached  and  clasped  it  with  his  left 
hand,  giving  it  a  warm  grip  before  the  hands  fell  apart. 
It  was  only  one  of  the  many  simple  pacts  of  aid  those 
days  made  between  man  and  man  to  whom  suffering 
brought  brotherhood.  Immediately  Etienne  demanded 
cheerfully  of  Katherine,  "Have  you  a  banana?  I  have 
never  seen  a  spot  so  bananaless  as  this  hospital!  Is  it 
that  they  cease  to  exist?  Have  the  submarines  sunk 
every  cargo  of  them?" 

"I'll  bring  some,"  Katherine  gladly  promised,  and  she 
came  often  to  spend  as  much  time  as  was  possible  with 
him,  reading  or  chatting  cheerfully.  In  all  that  hospital 
hers  was  the  only  voice  she  had  heard  raised  in  pity. 
Every  word  was  of  courage  or  admiration. 

Even  from  Etienne's  relatives  whom  she  came  to  meet 
304 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

in  their  visits  there,  frail  and  aged  gentlewomen  of  an 
old  regime,  she  did  not  hear  any  condolences  to  the 
maimed  boy.  They  were  proud  of  him.  He  could  be 
proud  of  himself.  He  had  done  his  duty. 

To  them  she  spoke  of  the  Baroness  de  Saronne,  who 
had  died  at  Les  Buissons,  and  found  they  knew  her 
well. 

All  this  news  and  more  she  brought  back  with  her  to 
MacNare  in  his  hermitage  studio,  giving  him  scene  after 
scene  of  her  days.  Some  wounded  German  boys  were 
especially  pathetic  to  her.  One  had  been  found  fainting 
across  a  dead  Frenchman  to  whom  he  had  brought  water. 

"His  own  knee  was  shattered — and  he  is  so  pa- 
tient! Not  a  complaint,  ever.  He  said  to  the  French 
boy  in  the  cot  next  him,  'We  are  not  enemies  in  hos- 
pital— no?'  And  then  he  said  very  worriedly,  'And  why 
should  we  be  enemies  at  all?  .  .  .  We  want  to  live,  not 
kill  each  other.  But  it  is  for  the  Fatherland.'  The 
Fatherland!  For  Prussia!" 

For  the  officers  she  felt  not  so  much  sympathy.  The 
arrogance  of  their  caste  was  there.  Once  she  beheld 
one  young  German  lieutenant  spit  promptly  in  the  face 
of  a  soldier  from  his  own  regiment  who  without  being 
addressed  had  spoken  to  him,  offering  to  translate  for 
him.  It  might  not  be  typical — but  it  was  illustrative  of 
a  spirit  that  made  her  American  blood  boil. 

And  again  she  sat  up  all  one  night  with  a  dying  pris- 
oner who  had  the  sins  of  war  on  his  young  conscience. 
He  had  gone  mad  with  the  others  in  sacking  one  Bel- 
gian village  and  there  had  been  a  young  girl  who  re- 
sisted him — and  he  had  bayoneted  her.  He  told  Kath- 

S05 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

erine  over  and  over  again  how  sick  it  had  made  him 
when  the  steel  went  running  through  her  soft  body. 

"She  was  like  my  sister  at  home — but  that  is  war,  is 
it  not,  nurse?  And  we  had  orders — we  could  do  as  we 
liked  with  the  girls.  That  is  war.  .  .  .  And  someone 
had  fired — it  was  for  an  example.  She  was  like  Frida. 
.  .  .  But  in  war  a  man  is  not  himself — she  should  not 
have  fought  me.  And  that  old  man " 

He  babbled,  staring-eyed,  till  dawn  brought  him 
death. 

There  were  other  scenes  more  cheerful.  One  day  she 
came  to  an  English  private,  an  irate  cockney,  bitterly 
berating  the  man  who  had  carried  him  off  a  battlefield 
under  fire.  "Used  me  like  a  sack  on  'is  back,  the  beg- 
gar did — a  blooming  shield  between  'im  and  the  bul- 
lets. They  plumped  two  more  into  me.  .  .  .  And  they 
speaks  of  Mm  for  a  medal.  Life-saving !  Garn !  'Ose 
life,  I'd  like  to  know?" 


CHAPTER    XXX 

CHRISTMAS  came  with  a  sober  pealing  of  bells, 
with  music  and  candles  and  high  masses  in  the 
cathedrals  where  the  women  prayed,  with  flowers 
and  fruit  for  the  hospitals  and  many,  many  gifts  for  the 
trenches,  so  many  of  them  pathetically  undelivered. 

To  Etienne  de  Trezac  that  day  was  given  his  first 
sight  of  his  fresh-healed  stump.  He  was  sitting  in  an 
invalid  chair,  wrapped  in  a  huge  blanket,  steadily  re- 
garding his  arm,  when  Katherine  came  toward  him  and 
for  a  moment  the  girl  was  tempted  to  turn  and  run. 

Often  it  seemed  to  her  tense  nerves  that  the  limit  of 
sensibility's  endurance  had  been  reached,  but  always  she 
forced  herself  on. 

Now  Etienne  raised  his  head  and  greeted  her  com- 
posedly. "Surveying  the  relic,  you  observe,"  he  said, 
holding  it  grimly  out.  "A  stupid  thing,  is  it  not? 
Some  mechanical  horror  will  doubtless  be  attached  that 
I  may  hook  up  a  fallen  handkerchief." 

"Etienne,  do  not !" 

"I  do  not  mean  to  distress  you.  I  am  but  hardening 
myself  to  the  spectacle.  Does  it  affront  you?" 

"Never  that — never !    But  it  makes  me  too  sorry." 
307 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  sudden  brightness.  He  saw 
her  white  face  smiling  down  upon  him,  her  soft  gray- 
blue  eyes  clouded  with  their  deep  compassion.  Her  lips 
were  very  tender. 

He  smiled  with  a  trace  of  his  old  insinuating  daring, 
looking  boyish  again.  "You  have  an  English  proverb — 
something  from  your  Shakespeare.  How  does  it  go  in 
English?  That  pity  is  akin  to  love!" 

Her  eyes  turned  from  him  to  sweep  the  long  narrow 
room,  animated  to-day  with  many  visitors.  "I  love 
every  one  of  you !"  she  declared. 

"Will  you  regard  me  for  a  moment?" 

His  eyes  were  serious  now,  filled  with  a  bright,  warm 
light.  His  thin  white  face  was  flushed.  "Once  I  was 
very  stupid,"  he  said  abruptly.  "I — I  did  not  suffi- 
ciently respect  the  canons  of  your  amazing  country. 
But  that  is  forgiven,  is  it  not?" 

"Oh,  long  ago — forgiven  and  forgotten."  Sincerity 
rang  in  her  quick  words.  It  was  of  no  moment  to  her 
now  that  he  had  ever  misjudged  or  wounded  her.  It 
seemed  very  trivial  and  far  away. 

She  thought  that  she  would  tell  him  of  Olga  and  her 
life  now,  but  he  went  on  hurryingly,  "But  I  have  not 
forgotten !  I  was  insolent !  .  .  .  And  all  the  time.  .  .  . 
It  seems  that  I  was  indeed  searching  for  my  future 
countess.  .  .  .  If — if  you  would  do  me  so  much  honor? 
If  this" — he  indicated  that  poor  stump — "if  this  does 
not  repel  you  ?" 

"Oh,  Etienne!"  There  was  keen  reproach  for  that 
thought  in  her  cry.  Then  she  smiled  and  shook  her 
head  at  him  in  the  teasing  way  of  the  bright  Katherine 

308 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

that  he  had  known.  "Now  I  know  that  you  are  con- 
valescent. To  propose  to  the  nurse — in  America  that 
is  a  most  favorable  symptom !  I  shall  put  it  upon  your 
chart." 

But  he  would  be  answered.  "You  evade  me — and  I 
am  sincere.  I  love  you.  I  did  not  mean  to  speak  yet, 
but  my  love — it  is  not  of  a  patience,  love,  you  know." 
He  spoke  lightly  but  his  pathetic  eyes  were  searching 
her  face. 

What  he  saw  there  prepared  him  for  her  words.  "It 
can  never,  never  be,  my  dear." 

"Never — that  is  a  long  time." 

"And  for  me  also." 

She  could  not  speak  of  Jeffrey ;  she  could  not  tear 
away  the  protective  silence  from  that  bleeding  wound 
in  her  life,  but  the  sudden  inflection  of  her  voice,  the 
dark  dilation  of  her  eyes,  struck  his  sensitive  perceptions 
with  meaning  and  hushed  the  eager  words  upon  his  lips. 

He  said  no  more.  When  she  rose  to  go  his  left  hand 
caught  at  hers  and  carried  it  to  his  lips  in  a  gesture 
that  seemed  to  breathe  a  sudden  comprehension  in  its 
farewell. 

Nor  was  the  time  without  other  reminders  of  her 
youth  and  its  place  in  others'  lives.  Next  day  there 
came  a  letter  from  Dick  Conrad,  grumbling  at  her  lack 
of  communicativeness  and  at  his  weakness  in  writing  her 
again. 

Somehow  I  can't  picture  you  [he  wrote]  going 
about  in  a  uniform  distributing  beef  tea  and  pale 
pink  pills.  Do  you  wear  a  cap?  Your  mother 

309 


says   you  are  just   substituting  now.     Does   that 
mean  reading  aloud  to  handsome  convalescents  ? 

The  jocoseness  grated  upon  her  sympathies,  so  fresh- 
ly vibrating  from  the  day's  demands.(  Then  she  smiled. 
Good  old  Dick!  That  was  his  way  of  putting  things, 
of  hiding  his  feelings  under  a  display  of  humor.  She 
read  on. 

We  are  all  fed  up  on  the  war  over  here  and  the 
governor  is  something  fierce  about  it,  let  me  tell 
you !  No  "ma  patrie"  and  "dear  old  England" 
here!  The  Conrads  are  strong  for  the  Father- 
land, believe  me !  Funny,  too,  because  he's  nevei*" 
seen  it,  and  his  dad  cleared  out  early,  I  under- 
stand, not  caring  to  drill  and  preferring  to  make 
steel  in  a  community  where  the  man  of  peace  was 
allowed  upon  the  sidewalk,  but  I  am  not  mention- 
ing that  aloud  at  all.  No,  sir,  we  are  fighting 
for  the  hearth  and  home  and  life  and  liberty,  and 
every  nation  on  earth  has  been  hating  Germany 
since  the  fall  of  Eden  and  trying  to  slip  hemlock 
in  her  beer.  ...  It  always  seemed  to  me  that 
Germany  was  getting  along  very  fatly,  with  her 
share  of  good  things,  and  this  "place  in  the  sun" 
looks  like  a  mighty  hot  place  in  the  future,  but 
these  thoughts  are  not  for  home  consumption, 
little  Dickie  not  caring  for  a  decrease  in  the  size 
of  his  pay  checks.  Enough  is  pouring  out  of  the 
family  vaults  now  for  the  dogs  of  war.  Query: 
can  you  call  sausages  in  the  trenches  the  dogs  of 
•war? 

However  the  country  is   doing  something  else 
310 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

besides  knit  and  read  the  headlines.  There  are 
some  quite  entertaining  new  steps  and  you  had 
better  come  home  and  learn  them.  The  de- 
butantes have  got  us  all  trotting  till  dawn. 
Never  saw  such  a  set  of  lively  youngsters,  always 
up  to  the  day-ahead-of-to-morrow  stuff.  If  you 
get  this  far  you  might  sit  down  and  write  an  old 
friend  a  line,  just  to  say  that  you  haven't  eloped 
with  any  parlez-vous  or  vodka  gentleman  to  date. 
Is  the  painting  all  off?  Or  do  you  still  thirst  for 
fame? 

As  ever, 

DICK. 

"And  the  moral  of  that,"  murmured  Katherine  as  she 
laid  the  letter  down,  "is  that  Absence  makes  the  heart 
grow  fonder,  and  he  hasn't  quite  decided  on  his  debu- 
tante yet,  and  will  give  his  old  love  another  chance." 

It  did  not  seem  to  her  quite  possible  that  once  she  had 
seriously  considered  Dick  Conrad.  With  all  their  back- 
ground of  environment  they  were  as  far  apart  as  the 
poles.  What  different  roads  they  had  traveled!  She 
wondered,  letting  the  dusk  gain  upon  her  as  she  sat 
there  with  her  thoughts,  if  she  could  wish  herself  never 
to  have  taken  that  steamer,  never  to  have  met  Jeffrey, 
never  to  have  lived  those  awful  days. 

But  she  could  not  wish  that  time  unlived.  Her  mem- 
ories were  priceless. 

Her  own  grief,  that  had  been  so  strange  at  first,  had 
grown  an  intimate.  It  seemed  natural  now  for  that  se- 
cret heaviness  to  lie  upon  her  heart — the  wonder  was  she 
had  ever  been  different!  Now  she  never  looked  or 

311 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

planned  one  week  or  month  ahead.  Everything  that 
was  dear  was  behind  her;  the  present  was  a  desperate 
effort  to  lose  herself  in  work. 

And  though  in  the  busy  days  she  seemed  more  and 
more  like  her  old  self,  though  she  was  gallantly  cheer- 
ful, quick  of  smile  and  speech,  she  never  closed  her  eyes 
of  nights  without  remembering  those  other  eyes  that 
would  never  open  again,  the  strange,  cold  waxen  lids  her 
fingers  had  touched  so  unbelievingly.  And  those  cold 
lips.  .  .  .  That  still  heart  that  she  had  felt  leap  and 
quiver  against  her  own  in  their  young  hour  of  love.  .  .  . 
Those  were  the  memories  that  kept  her  company  in  the 
desolate  wakeful  hours  and  dogged  even  her  sleep  with 
dreams. 

But  when  Dick  Conrad's  letter  slipped  from  her  fingers 
and  she  sat  there  musing,  she  began,  for  the  first  time, 
to  face  something  of  the  future.  What  was  before  her  ? 
She  could  not  go  on  here  forever;  for  one  thing  her 
money  would  not  much  more  than  last  her  year  out,  and 
for  another  there  would  not  always  be  work  for  her  to 
do.  Her  family  were  anxious  for  her  return.  This  life 
must  end  sometime.  And  then? 

She  shivered  as  she  looked  at  those  years  ahead. 

Her  painting,  of  course — but  that  was  only  a  small 
part  of  life.  Since  the  day  of  her  betrothal  she  had 
known  how  small  a  part.  And  some  spring  of  incentive 
was  broken  in  her.  .  .  . 

Definitely  she  had  decided  not  to  tell  her  family. 
Since  Jeffrey's  mother  did  not  know  her  own  mother 
need  not  be  saddened.  Confidence  would  not  help,  for 

312 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

they  had  not  known  Jeffrey,  had  not  come  with  her  all 
this  way.  ...  It  would  be  easier  to  go  on  with  life  at 
home  if  no  one  knew  and  no  worried  eyes  were  watching 
her  saying,  "Now  she  must  not  brood,"  or,  "Now  she  is 
getting  over  it."  No,  she  would  never  tell  them.  .  .  . 
But  what  was  she  to  do  with  her  life  ? 

Very  slowly  she  folded  Dick  Conrad's  letter  and  put  it 
away.  That  way  was  not  possible  for  her.  .  .  .  She 
had  put  it  behind  her  long  ago  when  she  took  the 
steamer  for  France.  Then  Jeffrey  had  first  seen  her  in 
Dick's  arms.  And  now  Dick  was  going  on,  dancing  and 
making  love,  and  Jeffrey  was  under  the  trees  at  Les 
Buissons.  .  .  . 

No,  it  was  not  possible  for  her.  .  .  .  Not  all  the 
wealth  of  all  those  factories,  pouring  their  black  .smoke 
into  the  sky,  could  alter  it.  ...  Dick's  jocularity 
touched  no  response.  He  wanted  her  to  be  gay  with,  to 
dance  with,  to  make  love  to.  He  did  not  really  need 
her.  .  .  .  Her  heart  was  tenderer  to  Etienne. 

He  had  played  his  part  in  this  great  struggle  which 
had  taken  Jeffrey.  He,  too,  had  suffered,  would  suffer 
as  long  as  he  lived.  She  knew  what  his  work  really 
meant  to  his  secret  self ;  she  knew  what  high  dreams  he 
had  gloried  in  behind  his  mask  of  nonchalance.  He 
would  rather  have  lost  his  tongue,  his  limbs,  than  that 
hand.  .  .  . 

She  would  have  liked  to  help  him  but  the  tenderness 
of  her  heart  was  not  the  love  he  wanted,  and  to  give 
more  was  an  impossibility,  even  in  thought. 

She  could  give  only  what  she  had,  not  what  these 
wanted  of  her. 

313 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

So  she  thought  forlornly,  sitting  there  in  the  dusk, 
and  presently,  forgetting  that  below-stairs  a  man  was 
waiting  for  her  to  come  out  to  dinner  with  him,  she  put 
out  her  light  and  crept  into  bed,  reliving  on  her  pillow 
the  days  before  the  great  guns  spoke  and  German  Kid- 
tur  had  broken  upon  the  world. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

SINCE  the  marble  had  come  she  had  scarcely  seen 
him.  Sometimes  he  came  out  to  eat,  sometimes 
he  sat  through  a  dinner  with  her,  but  he  sat 
silent  and  abstracted,  his  mind  back  in  that  studio,  cut- 
ting and  chiseling.  Even  a  glimpse  of  his  model  he  had 
refused  her.  She  must  wait  for  the  finished  thing,  he 
said,  pale  as  that  would  be  to  the  thought  that  was  try- 
ing to  shape  its  likeness. 

The  glow  of  creation  was  upon  him  and  he  toiled  like 
a  giant  upon  his  rock,  spending  his  strength  furiously, 
draining  his  already  gaunt  and  haggard  body.  His 
worn  appearance  was  troubling  Katherine,  and  when  she 
found  that  note  under  her  door,  asking  to  see  her,  her 
first  thought  was  that  he  was  ill.  She  listened  and  could 
hear  no  sound  from  below,  where  for  so  many,  many 
evenings  had  come  the  march  of  -his  restless  steps. 

She  was  late  that  night,  for  she  had  stayed  at  the 
hospital  at  the  deathbed  of  a  man  who  held  her  for  his 
wife  and  whispered  his  dying  words  into  her  ears?  and 
she  was  sick  and  shaken,  for  the  long  months  had  worn 
her  resistance  to  the  snapping  point.  December,  Jan- 
uary, February — day  by  day  each  had  passed.  And  so 
21  315 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

slowly  that  battle-line  was  pressing  the  invader  back 
from  France,  so  slowly,  foot  by  foot  and  yard  by  yard 
— and  so  many  new  faces  in  those  beds — so  many  hob- 
bling out,  hurt  and  maimed ! 

To-night  she  was  in  the  grip  of  horror.  And  as  she 
ran  down  the  stairs  again,  her  hat  and  coat  untouched, 
she  dreaded  what  she  might  find  in  that  room  below. 

There  was  no  answer  to  her  first  knocking  and  her 
fear  sprang  into  clearer  form.  She  remembered  that 
casual  revolver.  .  .  .  Suppose  that  he  had  waited  only 
to  finish  that  work  of  his ? 

Again  she  struck  the  door.  Now  there  were  sudden 
steps  and  the  noise  of  a  chair  pushed  back. 

The  lock  was  turned,  the  door  opened,  and  in  the  dim 
hall  light  she  saw  him  standing  there  in  his  sculptor's 
blouse,  his  hair  disheveled,  his  face  flushed. 

"I  must  have  been  asleep.  ...  I  didn't  hear  you 
come  in,  though  I'd  been  listening." 

He  snapped  on  the  electricity  and  she  stumbled  into 
the  room  a  little  weak  in  the  reaction  of  her  tired  nerves. 

"You're  ill,"  he  said  sharply,  staring  at  her  and 
blinking  his  heavy  eyes  owlishly  in  the  sudden  light. 
"You  look  like  a  ghost.  Where  have  you  been  all  this 
time?" 

"At  the  hospital.  A  man  was  dying — he  thought  I 
was  his  wife  and  he  kept  clinging  to  me.  Oh,  it  was  too 
pitiful."  Suddenly  she  put  her  hands  up  to  her  face 
to  hide  its  quivering,  but  the  long  strain  had  been  too 
much  and  the  big  tears  welled  between  her  screening 
fingers.  "I  didn't  mean — to  act — like  this,"  she  stam- 
mered, "but  I  can't  stand  any  more — I  can't — I  can't  !** 

316 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

And  then  she  flung  back  her  head  with  a  defiance 
characteristic  of  her  old  challenging  gesture.  "D- 
don't  m-mind  me,  please.  ...  If  they  can  d-die,  I  guess 
that  I  c-can  help.  .  .  .  I'll  be  all  right." 

He  gave  her  a  long  look,  then  walked  away  with  a 
glance  at  his  great  covered  marble,  standing  where  last 
summer  the  marble  for  his  unfinished  "Fountain  of 
Life"  had  stood,  and  began  puttering  with  his  tools. 

"You  said  you — wanted  to  see  me,"  she  reminded  him. 

"You're  too  tired.    Another  time." 

"No.  I  couldn't  sleep.  .  .  .  I'd  rather  hear  what  it 
was." 

A  fire  in  the  room  had  made  it  warm  and  she  slipped 
out  of  her  jacket  which  weighed  upon  her,  and  lifted 
the  hat  from  her  tired  head,  running  her  ruffling  fingers 
through  the  soft,  light  hair. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  wear  black,"  he  told  her  sharply. 

Over  her  shoulder  she  cast  him  a  faint  smile.  "I 
shan't — any  more  But  you  didn't  send  for  me  to  tell 
me  that?  Are  you  ill?" 

"111?  Why,  no.  ...  But  I — I  wanted  to  show  you 
something.  I  wanted  you  to  see — the  first.  But  you 
are  tired  out  now.  It  can  wait." 

"Oh,  your  work!  I'm  not  too  tired  for  that!  It 
would  rest  me,  Rob."  For  months  now  she  had  accepted 
his  curt  request  to  use  his  first  name  as  he  used  hers,  but 
she  had  shortened  it  to  Rob  in  ever  sensitive  fear  of  re- 
minding him  of  Peggy's  "Robert." 

"I'm  not  sure  about  that,"  he  said  frowningly.  "It's 
not  very — restful." 

But  she  saw  that  he  was  boyishly  eager  to  show  her, 

317 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

and  she  was  touched.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  been  work- 
ing for  days  and  nights,  snatching  sleep  when  his  driv- 
ing energy  would  let  him;  he  was  unshaven,  untidy, 
tousled.  .  .  .  She  made  up  her  mind  to  make  him  come 
out  for  a  walk  with  her  next  day.  He  was  killing  him- 
self— and  she  had  neglected  him.  But  she  had  thought 
him  happier  at  work. 

"Come  over  here."  He  indicated  the  place.  "There. 
.  .  .  Then  shut  your  eyes.  .  .  .  Now." 

Excitement  stirred  in  his  voice.  She  shut  her  eyes, 
wishing  she  had  more  vitality  that  moment  to  meet  the 
demand  of  his  impatience  for  her  first  impression,  then 
at  his  permission  she  opened  her  eyes  again  upon  the 
finished  work.  The  thing  was  like  a  shock.  She  did  not 
need  to  summon  strength  to  feign  an  interest;  it  took 
hold  upon  her  with  rude  force. 

Out  from  the  great  block  of  marble  rose  the  triumph- 
ant war  figure,  conquering,  imposing,  a  Mars  of  blood 
with  a  rhythm  of  lances,  a  rank  of  soldierly  forms,  of 
massy  cannon  in  the  rock  behind  him.  .  .  .  Under  him 
were  the  crushed  creatures,  the  half-guessed,  shattered 
figures,  the  prostrate  women,  the  dead  men.  He  trod  on 
upturned,  sightless  faces.  Beneath  one  foot,  clearly  in- 
dicated from  the  rough  mass  of  agony,  lay  the  broken, 
tender  figure  of  a  child. 

Katherine  looked  and  looked,  and  all  that  was  artist 
and  all  that  was  woman  in  her  felt  the  power  of  that 
conception — the  brute  force  of  the  oncoming  aggres- 
sion, the  poignancy  of  that  slaughtered  child.  ...  A 
lump  came  into  her  throat  and  her  mouth  worked. 

"The  Invader,"  said  MacNare  grimly  behind  her. 
318 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

A  rush  of  tears  blinded  her.  They  were  tears  for 
the  man  himself,  for  the  artist  whose  individual  agony 
had  scourged  his  genius  to  this  thing.  .  .  .  She  could 
not  look  at  him  just  yet.  She  continued  to  face  that 
figure  of  callous  conquest. 

And  then  she  turned  on  him  a  look  shining  through 
her  tears.  "You've  carved  it  there — for  the  world  to 
see.  Oh,  if  there  are  'sermons  in  stones' " 

"There  are — and  in  paint  and  ink,  and  the  world  sees 
and  reads  and  only  the  small,  sentient  fraction  of  it  feels 
and  understands.  ...  As  for  the  mass — "  He  made  a 
gesture  of  despair.  "Believe  me,  I  have  no  illusions  as 
to  what  you  or  I  can  do  with  ourselves  and  yet — it  is 
there  for  us  to  do.  .  .  .  And  so  we  keep  on.  .  .  .  And 
the  mass  that  cheer  and  cry  for  victories,  that  feel  a 
glory  in  seizing  territory  from  weakness,  in  wider  boun- 
daries, and  far  possessions,  that  mass  comes  and  shud- 
ders and  says,  'How  terrible — but  that  is  war !'  And  ac- 
quiesces— as  the  East  acquiesced  in  leprosy — and  the 
Brahmin  women  in  suttee  and  the  Spaniard  in  the  In- 
quisition. .  .  .  'How  terrible — but  how  customary !  .  .  . 
It  will  always  be  done !' ' 

His  bitterness  broke  off.  "However — one  does  what 
one  can.  You — you  feel  it?"  He  motioned  toward  the 
great  marble,  and  there  was  the  eager  flash  of  achieve- 
ment in  his  face. 

"Too  much,"  said  Katherine,  her  wide  eyes  on  it 
again,  a  surge  of  memories  rising  within  her.  "Too 
much,"  she  echoed  under  her  breath. 

Abruptly  he  snapped  off  the  lights,  leaving  them  in 
darkness  but  for  the  waning  firelight  and  the  pale,  wide 

810 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

squares  of  windows,  and  began  fumbling  on  a  littered 
table  for  candles  and  matches.  "That's  enough — you 
don't  need  any  more  horrors  to-day.  But  I  wanted  you 
to  see." 

Her  eyes  followed  him  wistfully.  "You're  a  great 
man,  Mr.  Surly  Man.  It  must  be  a  great  feeling  to 
make  such  thoughts  come  alive." 

He  shook  his  tousled  head  at  the  looming  white  mass. 
"That's  not  true  to  my  thought.  .  .  .  But  I've  done 
enough  on  it.  I  can't  do  more.  .  .  .  And  now  that's 
done " 

He  sat  down  and  picked  up  a  pipe,  and  she  sank  into 
a  chair  opposite  him  and  surveyed  him  half  whimsically, 
half  worriedly. 

"Have  you  lived  on  anything  but  coffee  and  tobacco  ?" 

"Eh  ?  .  .  .  I  don't  know — I  dare  say  not.  .  .  .  Good 
old  Bonnet  is  always  slipping  around  with  some  mess 
or  other — I  find  them  at  the  door  when  I  don't  let  her 
in."  He  smiled  faintly. 

"She's  a  dear." 

"Yes,  yes — a  brave  woman." 

A  pause  followed,  full  of  brooding  for  her.  She  could 
not  shake  off  the  distress  of  the  day  and  the  culminating 
shock  that  his  marble  had  made  upon  her.  She  asked 
"What  are  you  going  to  do  now — with  that?" 

"Oh,  that?  Not  much  now.  I'm  leaving  it  with  some 
old  artist  friends  and  by  and  by  I  want  it  placed  pub- 
licly— I'm  making  a  gift  of  it  to  France." 

"Leaving  it — but  why  ?" 

He  said  brusquely,  "I'm  going  away." 

"Away?    Where?" 

320 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

Somehow  she  had  thought  of  him  as  fixture  in  his 
cave-like  studio.  Quick  disquiet  edged  her  gaze  on 
him. 

"To  the  front?     Where  else?" 

"Enlist?" 

"Naturally." 

"Why — why — "  Her  voice  failed.  She  sat  thinking 
as  swiftly  as  her  tired  brain  would  go.  .  .  .  Something 
ia  the  fixity  of  the  man's  air  brought  the  key  to  those 
old  days  when  she  had  wondered  at  his  stoic  courage. 
...  So  he  had  intended  this  always.  .  .  .  And  he  had 
accepted  every  day  because  he  meant  this  in  the  end. 
.  .  .  But  his  genius  had  intervened,  had  held  him  for 
one  last  message  to  the  world. 

She  said,  her  voice  shaking  unaccountably,  "You 
know  that  you  aren't  in  condition — you  aren't  half 
strong  enough.  Those  trenches ' 

"It  is  not  to  be  a  contest  of  physique,"  he  remarked 
with  his  old  crispness.  Under  his  dark  brows  his  burn- 
ing eyes  turned  sharply  on  her.  "Don't  worry.  I'm  not 
going  to  shake  out  with  ague  in  a  trench.  I'll  get  to 
them  before  that  and  when  I  do — God  help  them !" 

Sudden,  savage  exultation  leaped  in  his  grim  face. 
A  shocked  impression  went  through  her;  she  shivered 
and  raised  a  hand  in  startled  protest.  "Don't !  It's " 

"Well?" 

"It's  too  terrible,"  she  finished  weakly.  His  smile  was 
sardonic.  She  knew  what  he  was  remembering  now. 
That  dead  child  in  the  room  above.  .  .  .  And  this  was 
what  he  meant  to  do  about  it — what  he  had  always 
meant.  .  .  .  His  clenched  hand  was  tightening  till  the 

321 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

knuckles  whitened  as  if  he  had  his  strong  fingers  curl- 
ing about  some  enemy's  throat — those  subtle,  sensitive 
fingers  of  his  which  could  make  clay  a  living  thing  and 
chisel  beauty  from  the  bare  rock. 

She  flashed  at  him,  "You  mean  not  to  come  back !" 

"Naturally,"  he  said  coolly,  "but  when  I  go  I'll  take 
a  few  of  them  along  with  me — remember  that !" 

"It's  terrible !"  she  said  again,  with  gathering  spirit. 
"For  you  deliberately  to  plan  to  die — and  die  kill- 
ing  " 

"That's  soldier's  business,  isn't  it?" 

"But  it's  not  your  business — you're  not  a  soldier! 
It's  your — revenge — your  private  score.  To  go  out 
and  sell  your  life — and  your  life  isn't  yours  to  throw 
away.  You  can  do  more  that  way,"  she  pointed  at  the 
marble,  "a  hundred  times  than  by 

"Shall  I  go  out  and  exhibit  that  to  the  Germans?" 

"To  the  rest  of  the  world !" 

"I  have  left  it  to  speak  for  me." 

"And  you  may  never  reach  them.  You  may  die  in  a 
trench." 

"Chances  of  war.  .  .  .  But  I'll  risk  it." 

"You're  not  fit.     You're  worn  to  a " 

"I'll  last  my  time." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  shaken  with  gathering  fear.  Her 
words  came  in  a  broken  rush,  "But  it's  death — it's  death ! 
.  .  .  And  I  couldn't  bear — I  couldn't  bear  anything 
more !  .  .  .  You  must  live,  I  tell  you !" 

"Why?" 

Fixed  and  brightly  dark  his  haggard  eyes  held  hers 
in  irony. 

322 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

"For — your  future — your  works — your  friends. 
What  you  are  planning  is  suicide." 

"Live?  For  my  work?  My  friends?"  He  leaned 
forward,  his  hands  knotted,  his  face  upturned  to  hers. 
"Let  me  tell  you.  Have  you  any  idea  what  my  life 
is  that  you  are  asking  me  to  go  on  with?  .  .  .  Listen. 
You  remember  that  I  spoke  to  you  once  of  my  marriage. 
But  you  have  no  idea — you  have  no  idea  what  I  went 
through.  I  married  a  beauty.  I  worshiped  beauty. 
I  knew  nothing  of  women.  I  had  been  a  sort  of  hermit 
in  my  young  enthusiasm  for  work,  even  here  in  my 
student  days  in  Paris.  I  was  full  of  the  most  blinded 
idealisms.  In  my  infatuation  with  that  woman  I  took 
for  granted  that  beauty  of  form  meant  beauty  of  feel- 
ing— I  took  every  refinement,  every  sincerity,  every  deli- 
cacy as  innate.  ...  In  six  months  I  was  sickened  to  the 
core.  And  I  did  not  know  then — I  did  not  even  com- 
prehend that  it  was  possible  for  her  to  betray  me.  That 
came  later." 

He  waited  a  moment,  his  eyes  unwavering  upon  the 
girl's  shocked  face.  "You  thought  there  was  another 
man,  perhaps?  .  .  .  There  were  half  a  dozen.  Now 
perhaps  you  can  imagine.  .  .  .  But  Peg  was  mine,  and 
when  I  saw  the  child  would  not  keep  her  clean  I  divorced 
her.  The  last  man  married  her.  He  knew  of  no  for- 
mer rivals — perhaps  he  has  kept  himself  from  later 
ones.  They  prosper,  I  believe.  .  .  .  You  need  not 
flinch — it  means  nothing  to  me,  nothing,  except  bitter- 
ness for  my  folly,  for  the  utter  waste." 

His  head  dropped  lower,  his  black  brows  drew  to- 
gether as  if  he  were  contemplating  the  ghost  of  those 

323 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

old  years.  Katherine  stood  motionless,  her  hand  upon 
the  back  of  her  chair,  her  eyes  on  his  dark  head. 

He  resumed,  "You  can  imagine  that  after  that  I  did 
not  care  for  women !  No,  nor  for  anyone  much.  .  .  . 
There  were  some  few  men  here,  but  I  did  not  care  to  see 
them  often.  .  .  .  Peg  and  I  got  along  very  well.  I — 
I  adored  the  little  thing.  ...  I  used  to  take  her  into 
my  bed  nights,  to  feel  her  little  human  warmth  clinging 
to  me.  ...  I  could  do  everything  for  her.  .  .  .  When 
she  grew  older  of  course — I  had  always  that  difficulty 
ahead,  but  I  would  manage.  .  .  .  But  a  child  cannot 
be  a  man's  life.  Perhaps  it  can  a  woman's — I  do  not 
know." 

He  raised  his  head  suddenly  and  flung  her  a  question- 
ing glance,  then  his  head  dropped.  "I  used  to  feel  starved 
— and  hungry — hungry.  I  did  not  know  for  what.  But 
I  went  out  of  my  way  to  avoid  a  pretty  girl.  And 
then  you  came.  .  .  .  And  from  the  first  I  dreaded  you. 
You  were  another  to  avoid.  .  .  .  But  that  night  that 
you  saved  Peg — I  had  to  go  to  you — and  afterwards 
you  were  so  gay  and  so  friendly  I  could  not  keep  away — 
and  then " 

He  gave  a  queer  little  sound  that  was  like  a  sick  man's 
groan.  "What  a  blind  fool  I  was !  You  do  not  know 
what  I  hoped !  After  Les  Buissons — I  stayed  away  till 
I  could  face  you  like  a  man." 

"Oh,  I  arn  sorry — 

He  brushed  away  her  little  whispering  cry  as  if  it 
teased  him. 

"You  need  not  be — I  am  not — not  now.  But  I  want 
you  to  understand.  I  want  you  to  know  what  my  love 

324 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

for  you  meant — hopeless  as  it  was.  I  gave  you  every- 
thing, everything  that  I  was  or  could  be.  I  made  myself 
your  friend.  .  .  .  You  went  to  Les  Buissons,  and  that 
bomb  fell.  It  destroyed  the  only  thing  in  the  world 
that  was  my  own.  I  went  mad  that  night.  I  go  mad 
when  I  think  of  it  now.  .  .  .  At  the  last  I  remember 
standing  with  my  gun  at  my  forehead— then  I  thought 
of  you.  I  wanted  to  wait  to  hear  that  you  were  safe. 
After  that  I  would — not  kill  myself,  but  sell  my  life — 
sell  it  dearly.  But  it  was  long  waiting.  At  last  I  heard 
your  poor  limping  steps  on  the  stairs." 

His  tone  involuntarily  softened,  and  he  paused,  as  if 
thinking  of  that  night.  She  was  thinking  of  it  too,  of 
his  silent  tenderness,  of  the  kind  hand  to  which  she  had 
clung  in  her  whispered  outpourings.  .  .  . 

In  a  low  voice  he  said,  "I  forgot  myself  in  my  pity 
for  you.  You  do  not  know  how  gladly  I  would  have 
died — have  died  in  torture — to  give  you  back  your 
heart's  desire.  .  .  .  And  yet  I  was  almost  happy  that  I 
could  take  care  of  you.  It  was  bitter  to  take  you  to 
London,  to  his  mother.  I — I  knew  that  you  would  feed 
all  your  youth  to  her,  if  you  could,  and  I  wanted  you  to 
begin  again — to  go  on — not  back.  .  .  .  That  was  why 
I  was  not  sorry  that  you  did  not  tell  her  and  I  took  you 
to  the  Cotswolds,  away  from  the  sights  of  war.  ...  It 
is  always  good  to  feel  the  earth  again  underfoot 
and  the  free  heavens  above.  One  gets  to  know  one- 
self." 

"Oh,  you  were  good,  you  were  so  good !"  she  cried  in 
a  rush  of  memory. 

"Good?  My  dear,  I  was  adoring  you.  I  was  utterly 
325 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

happy.  .  .  .  We  seemed  alone  in  the  world.  But  I  was 
not  a  fool  of  hope.  I  had  no  dreams.  I  lived  in  the 
present.  .  .  .  Then  you  found  yourself,  and  found 
yourself  strong  to  go  on.  We  came  back,  and  I  had 
one  thing  more  to  do.  .  .  .  Now  that  is  done.  .  .  .  And 
in  all  my  life  there  is  not  one  thing  to  hold  me.  I  have 
finished.  .  .  .  And  I  tell  you  all  this  that  you  may 
understand  completely  and  spare  yourself  any  pity  of 
compassion  for  the  rest." 

"Not — one — thing?"  she  said  slowly. 

He  looked  very  steadily  at  her  and  in  his  eyes  she 
saw  the  man's  long  acquaintance  with  denial.  She  saw 
there,  too,  the  softening  tenderness  for  her  that  was  like 
the  look  in  those  other  eyes.  .  .  .  She  flinched  at  the 
stab  of  memory  and  cried  a  little  wildly,  "But  you 
mustn't  go,  you  mustn't!  Think  how  I  should  feel, 
should  wait  for  word  of  you !  Oh,  it  would  be  too  cruel ! 
And  if  anything  happened — as  you  mean  it  to  hap- 
pen  " 

"I  tell  you  you  are  not  to  be  sorry !  What  should  I 
go  on  for?"  His  words  were  curt,  his  tone  hard.  "Do 
not  think,"  he  added,  quickly,  "that  I've  told  you  this  to 
hurt  you  or  to  beg  of  you !  I  am  not  such  a  fool !  .  .  . 
I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear,"  he  added,  a  little  huskily, 
"but  you — you  mustn't  expect  me — to  go  on — forever. 
I — really  think  I — can  be  spared — better  than  anyone 
else  I  know." 

His  head  dropped  forward  on  his  hands;  his  big 
shoulders,  hunched  and  sagging,  had  the  look  in  the 
dusk  of  some  crouched  and  wounded  thing. 

She  took  a  quick  step  toward  him,  one  trembling  hand 
826 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

outstretched  as  if  she  would  touch  him,  her  lips  trying 
to  form  some  words  of  meaning.  But  she  could  not 
speak,  so  much  now  hung  upon  each  word.  Pity  was 
hot  in  her,  urging  her  to  fling  herself  at  his  side,  to 
comfort,  to  murmur  kind  things.  .  .  .  But  of  what  use 
was  such  weak  kindness?  A  sop  to  her  feelings — a  drain 
upon  his !  .  .  .  Always  she  had  taken  from  him,  taken, 
taken,  unwittingly  hurting  and  tantalizing,  blind  utterly 
to  his  deep  and  secret  hungers.  .  .  . 

But  what  now  could  she  give  him? 

Something  cold  seemed  to  pass  through  her  very 
heart.  Her  eyes,  dark  and  dilated  with  dread,  stared 
over  his  bowed  head,  seeing  their  old  vision  of  Jeffrey, 
erect  and  soldierly,  that  smile  in  his  blue  eyes.  .  .  .  She 
could  feel  his  dead  face  against  her  breast.  She  was  his. 
How  could  she  tear  herself  from  those  memories,  even 
in  the  urge  of  divinest  pity  for  another? 

In  that  moment  of  intense  luminous  perception  the 
possibilities  of  life  flashed  before  her.  .  .  .  She  had 
begun  to  know  herself ;  in  the  very  agony  of  her  suffer- 
ing had  been  revealed  her  own  poignant  capacities  for 
life.  From  this  very  passion  for  life,  this  longing  for 
the  height  and  depth  of  human  experience,  had  sprung 
the  bitterest  of  her  pangs  of  denial.  .  .  .  The  world 
before  her  would  be  one  war  of  cross-purposes.  Would 
she  grow  disheartened  and  tired  of  her  lonely  ways? 
Would  she  yield  to  some  lesser  impulse 

In  all  her  life  there  did  not  seem  to  her  anything  so 
worthy  the  doing  as  to  help — to  heal.  To  this  the  war 
had  brought  her.  And  there  was  no  one  so  needing  her 
healing  as  this  solitary  man  before  her,  whom  life  had 

327 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

hurt  so  cruelly.  But  could  she  do  it?  Could  she  go  to 
him? 

To-night,  perhaps,  it  would  not  be  hard,  with  this 
surge  of  compassion  strong  in  her,  but  to-morrow — and 
all  the  morrows?  He  knew  her  sorrow  but  where  she 
had  drawn  comfort  from  him  before,  now  she  must  hide 
the  need  of  it.  ...  She  must  give  much — or  her  com- 
passion would  be  useless.  There  must  be  silence  and 
courage.  ...  In  all  the  world,  perhaps,  there  was  no 
one  to  whom  she  could  come  so  close  to  loving — but  it 
was  not  a  bridal  gladness  that  filled  her  brooding  eyes 
and  touched  her  tender  heart.  .  .  . 

These  thoughts  streamed  through  her  as  one  thought, 
and  she  lived  the  years  in  the  moments  in  which  she 
stood  motionless,  her  arm  half  raised,  her  lips  parted 
over  the  words  that  did  not  come. 

As  if  he  had  heard  he  raised  his  head  suddenly  and 
saw  her  there,  poised  in  the  firelight,  emotion  brimming 
her  eyes,  quivering  her  lips.  ...  A  flicker  of  pain 
twisted  across  his  set  face.  He  knew  a  sudden  savage 
impulse  to  jump  up,  and  crush  her  to  him,  to  feel  her 
soft  weight  in  his  arms,  her  face  against  his  lips.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  every  frustration  that  his  life  had 
known  was  in  the  denial  of  that  wild  longing. 

Unsteadily,  he  smiled  and  shook  his  head  at  her.  "Not 
your  pity,  my  dear — not  your  pity.  It's  no  use.  I  want 
— so  much  more  than  you  can  ever  give." 

As  if  that  refusal  were  the  spring  that  could  stir  her 
she  flashed  across  the  firelight  to  the  shadows  at  his  side 
and  knelt  beside  him,  her  hands  clasping  his. 

"You  don't  know — how  much  I  want  to  give.  How 
328 


THE    SPLENDID    CHANCE 

much  there  is  to  give,"  she  whispered  chokingly.  "Of 
all  people  in  the  world  I — I  could  begin  again  with  you." 

She  felt  a  heavy  hand,  like  a  vise  upon  her  shoulders. 
She  heard  the  sharply  indrawn  breath  stir  the  heavy 
chest.  "Do  you — do  you  know — what  you  are — mean- 
ing?" 

"I  do — indeed  I  do !  I  want  to  make  up  to  you — for 
all  that  life  has  done.  I  want  you  to — to  make  up  to 
me.  ...  I  couldn't  lose  you  now — I  couldn't  let  you  go. 
No  more  battles  for  us,  no  more  blood !  We've  borne — 
enough  of  hurts.  There  are  other  ways  of  helping — 
for  us  both.  But  don't  go  out  to  fight — with  that  hate 
in  your  heart !  Not — not  yet — not  till  they  need  you ! 
We'll  help,  we'll  spend  our  lives  in  helping,  .  .  .  but 
let  it  be  now  for  the  little  children,  the  homeless  ones — 
for  Peggy's  sake.  .  .  .  Oh,  you'll  stay?  You'll  stay 
with  me?" 

The  man's  hand  on  her  shoulder  trembled.  His  heart 
was  beating  as  if  it  would  break.  Incredulous  of  hap- 
piness, his  dark  eyes,  so  wistful,  so  hungry,  searched  her 
upturned  face. 

"With — you?"  he  said  huskily,  and  then  with  a  little 
broken  sound  that  was  half  a  sob  he  bent  and  drew  her 
close  to  him,  her  face  against  his  breast,  his  cheek  on 
her  bright  hair. 


(4) 


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